


Lights outside of Arkham

by EhidnaMAD



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Telltale Series (Video Game)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Batjokes, Batman-retirement End, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Juce, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mutual Pining, Original Character(s), Post-Endgame, Slow Burn, Tiffany is Batman's Apprentice End, True Friends End, Warnings May Change, vigilante!Joker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-06 13:50:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15887325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EhidnaMAD/pseuds/EhidnaMAD
Summary: The Pact is scattered being either imprisoned or recruited by the Agency and Batman's cowl is nothing but a lingering temptation for the man who took it off. The infamous Joker is locked up in Arkham for his own good. The day is saved, the heroes are celebrated and Gotham is safe once more. Everyone can play nice now the bad guy's in cuffs.Right?However, only after the battle is won its cost is seen by those who participated, as well as the consequences. Both the victors and the defeated have to decide what to do with the scattered pieces of their lives now. And these are not only personal questions: a vacuum created by the absence of paragons for both law and crime can't exist for too long, especially not in a place like Gotham.





	1. Prologue. Prison break

**Author's Note:**

> My immense, undying and adoring love for my best friend Juyn aka Zennfir. Without her, I would have ended having an anxiety attack and leaving the idea of this fic behind, but she endured my Telltale obsession and here we are. Darling, you are the best. Thank you for your patience with me.  
> I also want to thank ForDarkIsTheSuede (TheBadgeringWitness) for our small talks and her incredible work, which I re-read for dozens of times now.  
> And thanks to all of the readers!
> 
>  
> 
> _Important Spoiler Tags:_ Mental breakdown, psychological dissociation, canon-typical violence, minor character deaths

_All you have is your fire_

_And the place you need to reach_

_Don't you ever tame your demons_

_But always keep them on a leash_

_When I was a man, I thought it ended_

_When I knew love's perfect ache_

_But my peace has always depended_

_On all the ashes in my wake_ (c.) Hozier - Arsonist's Lullaby

****

**_Kill HIM!_ **

The screech of the voice in his head almost made him trip, his fingers instinctively finding a Jokerang – and letting it be. He couldn’t! He’d never--! Not after Bruce had caught him above the vat, not after—

Just… just not him!

_~The itsy-bitsy Bat climbed up a chemical plant, down came the knife and struck the Batsy down, out came the drone and killed the riddling scum, and the itsy-bitsy Bat climbed up his spot again~_

The buzzing in his head, the screams of voices, the creaking of metal under his feet – it all was so deafening! He had to get out, he had to get away from here. To get somewhere where the world wasn’t so muddy and blurry. He was just—all of it happening, why was it happening, he didn’t want to-- He was laughing, right, of course he was, why wouldn’t he? Everything went straight to hell! Of course, he’d be nervous! He had Waller, then Batman shoved up with his codes and compromises and… it all went down in flames. Why did it-- why, why, why…

**_No, you moron! He’ll chase you! He’s weak, strike while he’s injured! Kill him!_ **

_~Honey, look who else is ho-ome~_

The sudden sting in his chest. The suffocation. What was happening? Why did it have to--

“He’s down!”

“Hands where we can see them!”

Even more voices now? Ha! He wondered what would Dr. Leland say? Something about John – was it him? It had to be, right? Though it wasn’t his name now, was it? – not taking his meds, probably. When was the last time he saw that bottle anyway? Three weeks ago maybe, back at the Old Five Points before it went down in the smoke?

**_It’s not the time for this, you idiot! Get up! You’ll get us all killed!_ **

They were all around him, those clattering footsteps, cautious and slow. Little piggies with big guns. They fell the beast but knew it was still dangerous. They feared the wolf’s head even after it was chopped off.

~ _Clever little rats, aren’t they? Rats always have a knack for survival they say_ ~

“After everything we’ve been through together,” he heard Joker’s (or was it _John’s_? Or neither? Or _both_?) voice coming from his lips, raspy and wobbling. There was something in his throat, burning and acidic and bitter. Was it the taste of the words he spat at the metal catwalk? “This is how it ends?”

His chest stung so much. Why would it hurt so much, so badly? He wasn’t hit there… was he? After so much time without sleep remembering things became bothersome and slippery and just plain hard. Maybe there was something inside? Something ready to burst out in blood and gore and guts, violent and unstoppable and _wonderful_? Was it the stirring he felt for so long? Was it the end when he finally let himself hope for a new, better beginning?

“I’ll get you help,” a familiar voice called, pained and gritting.

**_Like you did before? Oh, wait, when the hell was the last time you helped us without a fee, Brucie-boy?! When was the last time it wasn’t about you or what you wanted?!_ **

_~Treacherous bat. Flipping his wings like his cowl. Flip-flip-flipping around. We’re good. We’re bad. We’re good. We’re the Bat. Oh, are we now? Are we, Batsy?~_

Flashes of white kept clouding his vision. Blood was pounding in his ears. It hurt, it hurt, hurt, hurt, goddamnit!

There was a stirring behind him, as something – someone? – who was heavy and injured was desperately trying to get back to his feet. Was he forgetting something crucial? It was hard to concentrate on anything besides that elusive feeling lurking under his skin. It had been for so long now. Just a few layers deep. Pacing like an animal in the cage, crawling at the back of his mind. Was it already time to peel off his old skin? This one felt right for once, but who was he to judge? The moment he found himself in clearly met the criteria of that indescribable ‘something’ to start the riot with.

“I won’t abandon you,” the rasping voice continued. Begging, promising, luring him back.

**_No! You LIAR! You chose her! You chose THEM over US!_ **

His pursuer was pained. Suffocating. It was reminding him of something, some moment oh so long before, when the roles – the words, the lead – were reversed.

~ _Would someone save him, now? Would someone save us like we did with him?_ ~

He could feel his lips moving, so his body was probably still spitting out words. That part of him, which longed for… for something, _anything_ , any connection, any feeling of relation of any kind, was betrayed and hurt, and whoever it belonged to – John or Joker, or both – was heaving his bleeding heart out right in front of black Kevlar boots with Batman trademark all over them.

But there were no outside words in his mind. No inside words, either. They were just a buzz of static, a hiss of a badly tuned radio, not worth even a sliver of his attention. Even the other voices which plagued his head twenty-four-seven seemed to keel over and die, making way for something completely new.

So he was bare and naked and alone, witnessing the birthing roar of the prison break which was well overdue.

The world became crystal clear and crimson and _hilarious_. Silly stick figures all around him scattered before the laughter and the roar of the new voice’s birth. They were so ridiculously frail and so agonizingly slow and so unmistakably _killable_. Clearly no match for him – this newborn Voice, this wolf among mutts, who wore his body and it fit him like a well-worn glove.

Oh, he was magnificent in his wake. Crimson and scarlet and carmine and amaranth and all the hues he knew no names for, all mixed in the perfect ensemble – before the stroke of black shattered the red. So he – they? – turned out to see who was brave and foolish enough to catch the attention of the unfettered.

But of course. Who else could coax the best voice yet out of this tattered shell, but _him_?

And as he lunged forward, feeling calm and content and happy for the first time in hours, only one word raged in his – Voice’s? – mind:

 

M͖̬͙̰͑ͭͣ̅̈̒͞͡Į̖͙̙͈̮ͪͧͣ̃N̸ͨ̋͌ͯ̌̾ͦ̔ͅĒ̴̺̲͕̻͔͒̅͑͢


	2. Spider webs are works of art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Important Spoiler Tags_ : canon-typical violence, mental issues, implied/referenced non-con, implied hallucinations, mentioned abusive relationship, self-harm

_If I told you what I was,_

_Would you turn your back on me?_

_And if I seem dangerous,_

_Would you be scared?_

_I get the feeling just because,_

_Everything I touch isn't dark enough_

_That this problem lies in me_ (c.) Imagine Dragons - Monster

 

He was back to square one, wasn’t he?

In a way, John really was coming home after being away for what felt like a sleepwalker’s dream. When he was dragged through the halls back to his old cell – _room_ , as Dr. Leland would undoubtedly correct him, if he had the ability to speak back then – he felt like he was sliding back into the web of sounds, smells and feelings so elaborate, that John rightfully doubted anyone else could comprehend it on the same level he did. Slithering cracks of once-white tiles, acrid odour of detergent, creaks and moans of the ancient building, incoherent screams of the inmates mixed with orderlies’ barks. He could almost, almost taste that funny powdery zest of pills in his mouth mixed with whitewash he got into a habit of picking from walls and chewing if he got into solitary for more than a few days.

He was Arkham’s just as much as Arkham was his.

**_You can’t run from who you are, darling. A psycho. Just a loony bin to throw away and never mention again._ **

_~At least we’re home, right? Oh, I know I missed those walls! Your ho-o-ome is where your hea-a-art is… Um… Err… how did this song go again? ~_

The only change he noticed immediately was the lights. Being just released from the solitary, John couldn’t understand it at first, spending his initial ‘real night back home’ by pacing restlessly in his cell, fighting back an agitated growl, the task of ‘normalizing sleeping schedules’ at the far end on his priority list. This fuzzy feeling that he treasured so much, his beloved blanket of light, always so warm and soothing, was turned into a dirty rag deep in his throat. He couldn't even scream in frustration – he was suffocating. How could those-- when did those clods have ruined the lights? He was out for only a year! Things took decades to be changed here! He could tell – oh yes, John could tell like no one else could, he was there for all of his conscious life, he still knew all of the broken tiles and blown light bulbs, all the nooks and crannies in the walls, and they all were just like they have been for decades, and yet the lights – the only thing that kept him relatively sane – had been completely ruined? How?!

Then again, maybe the lights were the same. Maybe it was him who had changed that much, seeing them from outside for once…

**_Right before you’ve been tossed back here to rot, babe. By the person you’ve adored the most, no less! Feel special yet?_ **

For the most part, John tried to ignore voices with learned stoicism. He was used to them in a manner any mental patient would, he assumed, especially since the… _newcomer_ … was – luckily – never heard from ever since Ace Chemicals. Getting back on meds helped, of course, though not completely in the way he hoped it would. The voices, they did have some nice thoughts once in a while after all. Besides, at least he could argue with them to his heart’s content instead of being left alone to brood. He clearly wasn’t prepared to deal with brooding on his own after all what had happened.

And by god, he was left alone indeed.

At least, for the first week. Or was it two? No-no, it couldn’t be. Probably. Ugh. He wasn’t so sure.

He could barely remember his time in the solitary, to be frank. Considering all of his wounds, stitches and bruises, and the fact that he was force-fed his medication, maybe it was for the best.

Luckily for him, the year he was away wasn’t nearly enough to erase his image from collective memory of both Arkham’s inmates and personnel. Even the newbies, it seemed, at least heard of the infamous ‘best non-comatose patient’ from the gossips. Or from the Gotham News, which was the same darn thing, basically. Doctors and orderlies remembered him as an okay guy who could be reasoned with and played nice with other kids, however, six confirmed kills did make them more cautious around him. As for other inmates, well… For the most part, John was still respected enough to earn fearful glances and ducked heads from those who knew better. Most of the people around the asylum saw he was not the one to be picked on and certainly not the one to be inappropriate with, and he was fine with that. For once, blood on his hands seemed to have helped, at least in that regard.

It was unnervingly easy to fall back into old habits, to find the right keys for the right people, especially since he knew almost all of them for his entire life. It felt almost nostalgic to charm his way through doctors’ skepticism and orderlies’ suspicion, to breeze through tests and analysis and questionnaires that were thrown his way. Sure, Joan was a tough nut to convince, but with years of experience under his belt, John soon got on her better side and received a permission to attend to group sessions, albeit with his hands tied and under supervision. It wasn’t exactly the result he was expecting with all the strings he had pulled, but it was a decent start to work with, everything considered.

Still, his absence had left glaring holes in the reputation he’d amassed over the years. There were some stirrings, so to speak, with the newer, bolder inmates and he had to address them sooner rather than later if he was to survive in the gloomy halls of his new old home.

**_Too bad you don’t have any of that fancy lil’ knives of yours, sweetheart. It’d be funny to watch them squirm, like worms on the hook, wouldn’t it?_ **

Three hilarious inmates, who came into play during his leave and whose names he didn’t bother memorizing, thought that now – because of his small stroll outside, perhaps? – they were at the center of the web John had spent his entire life weaving. That they could get him out of his own game. That they could outmatch him now, despite the fact that he obviously wasn’t the new guy anymore.

Quite a funny guess, to be honest. He even laughed at it! In their faces, of course.

Yet it was oh so _rude_ of them.

Being completely honest with himself, John was kind of used to the faulty assumption of him being harmless and passive just because he wasn’t on the orderlies’ blacklist. He loved using it to his advantage, even. Sure, he was lanky and thin-boned, compared to most of the inmates and tended to greet every day with a tad too wide smile. But perhaps, the problem laid in the fact that most of his neighbors just forgot how to use their heads for anything but eating? And some other things, like banging on the walls, occasionally.

_~Sometimes with a little outsource help~_

**_Oh, cut it. That’s what pals are for, right, babe? To help scumbags in need of physical education, heheh._ **

Still, it humored John to no end when others considered him… interested in a hookup, for lack of better word. Humor was drenched neck-deep in rage, however, as he never – not even once – had given any indication of being attracted to anyone here.

_~Anyone, huh? What about-- ~_

**_Hush, kiddo, grown-ups are talking. We’d rather you not mention that traitor ever again._ **

It came with being a bleached out weirdo with green hair, he supposed. And maybe the itsy-bitsy fact that John absolutely adored makeup, which (for some reasoning he always failed to see, to be honest) was considered as a part of a strictly ‘girls-only’ club. Not many narrow-minded people were into the kind of style he possessed, but female inmates were not only few and far in between, but also basically held in a separate wing of Arkham not to cause any… ‘tensions’, as orderlies would officially put it, with male population. It wasn’t like there were no said ‘tensions’, oh no, John was witness to more of those than he cared to remember. It only meant there were no consequences for the resolution of those ‘tensions’ for the stuff to deal with.

So, quite slim pickings, eh? Even a ‘freak’ would do.

Therefore, for the sake of his own peace, he had to once again make it crystal clear that not only he wasn’t interested, but he was also a force to be reckoned with. That he was not a prey, but a predator, and an apex one at that, despite being injured and outmatched.

The hunt was on, and both inmates and orderlies watched it unfold like some kind of reality TV.

_~The smell of blood in the water is always exhilarating, isn’t it? ~_

Being a watcher he was, John allowed his opponents to take the first move just to have an inkling of who he’s pitted against – to his ultimate disappointment. Okay, the distraction they pulled to get the orderly responsible for John’s convoy to leave them together was mostly passable – for beginners. But the rest was a total and utter disaster. Not only did they waste their element of surprise on the moves which were so blatantly outdated he couldn’t help but chuckle, but they also were too hasty for their own good. It was only the end of second group therapy session and they were already trying to pin him to the wall and getting physical against his will? Really? What breed of idiots they were if they thought they’d be on an even ground with him on his own turf? That he was defenseless in the place he’d spent most of his life? Gosh, they really deserved what they had coming.

So, a few days, one stolen – and returned, mind you! – warden card, few ripped out nails and mind-numbingly unskilled sexual humiliation he had to watch in the front seats (trying not to lose his mind out of boredom, ugh) later he emerged the victor without raising anyone’s suspicion. Not that he was interested in the latter part of the deal – because gosh, no, he wasn’t! It was simply painful to watch, did those three even know what they were supposed to do with each other? – but hey, it wasn’t him who chose the battlefield, and those three knew what they were betting on when challenging him in that regard, right?

Honestly, John wasn’t sure which side of the clash was gladder once it was over and he could leave to sleep the ickiness away.

Of course, everyone with a sliver of intelligence realized who did it and why. But John wouldn’t be the model patient he had been all those years if he didn’t know all of the Arkham’s rules by heart and how to dance around them. There was no evidence, no video footage, and the only witnesses-slash-victims knew better than to open their yaps after everything that had happened.

They challenged him in his game and paid the price. He was back at his rightful place in the center of Arkham’s cat’s cradle, weaved meticulously around his long pale fingers.

**_Feels good to be back, right, darling?_ **

Except… it wasn’t.

He paced and paced and paced inside of his cell, flipping back and forth in complete silence, feeling his toes becoming numb from the cold tiles of the floor and ignoring it, for better or worse. His previous privileges of somewhat-free movement among Arkham’s corridors and access to rec room were still in question, but he knew Joan and was quite sure he’d get them back eventually. The lights were suffocating. No one – not a single soul – would challenge him in his game in the foreseen future. His meds were hidden nicely in the crook of his mattress, waiting for the moment when he would need the solitude from the voices. It looked like everything – including him – was back where it belonged or at the very least falling back into its old place.

And it was so unbelievably… so astonishingly… so soul-crushingly…

 _Boring_.

So he paced and paced and paced, his mind being trapped in his body just as it was trapped in the cell. Just as the cell itself was squeezed into the cold stone bulk of the asylum, one of many. It was all the same – yet it wasn’t. His comfy cradle, his intricate web, his Meisterstuck turned out to be a labyrinth of misdirection and misfortune, a puzzle with no solution, a maze with no prize. An elaborate joke dragging for minutes long and yet with no real punchline. Familiar cosines had turned into a mockery now that he’d seen how small and completely insignificant it really was.

How small and insignificant John himself was.

And is.

And probably will be forever.

So he paced. There was nothing better to do, anyway, apart from bickering with the voices. After all, if his cell truly was a room, as Joan implied during their sessions, why couldn’t he have a roommate or two? They didn’t take much space, after all, only some part of his sick brain, so no loss there, right? Sure he deserved some comfort of chatting after a stressful day in the familiar surroundings!

Luckily, he got used to doing it silently, too. He had this nagging gut feeling that there was an orderly right outside of his door, for the first time in forever…

**_Oh, dear, we’ll always have your back! You can count on us unlike that treacherous goody two shoes know-it-all-- Ah! Almost mentioned something we shouldn’t touch._ **

_~Why would we keep his picture, then? Some dubious double standards I feel in this one~_

John turned so quickly, he almost felt his feet squeaking on the tiles. Almost. Of course, he was wiser than letting his emotions to get better of him and betray his movements to any outsider… right? He just… he wanted to make sure the photo was at its rightful place, that’s it. He wasn’t staring at it. Nope. No way, because he totally and completely wasn’t.

However, it was… funny, actually, everything considered. He was left alone, not quite in the solitary, but not so much out of it, either, ‘to get him accustomed’. He was dragged to Dr. Leland’s office in nothing short of a straightjacket under convoy of two orderlies. He was kept apart from almost anyone and everyone – especially after that trio’s hilarious fiasco, despite lack of evidence. He was considered dangerous, and not without a reason. The list of his medication doubled at the very conservative estimation. And yet he managed to weasel his way into keeping the photo in a simple plastic frame he was looking at now.

‘It’s not dangerous’, he’d insisted in front of Dr. Leland’s tired gaze, leaning forward to emphasize his measured arguments. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the splash of colors on her desk. His treasures, his memories, his… _freedom_ , oh so short-lived, dumped in a pile like meaningless junk. Infuriating. ‘Not for me, not for anyone else. The frame’s too flimsy, there’s no glass, the photo paper’s soft and worn, and I have far better chances to choke and suffocate on my meds. If I’d ever want to kill myself, there are far easier ways to do that, and you know that, Doc. You’ve taken the rest of them. Let me have this one, just this one, and I promise I’ll be a model patient in no time, you’ll see…’

It was all nonsense and they both knew it, just some colorful wrapping for the real meaning. For all of the hurried, desperate ‘please, please, please, PLEASE!’ which hid under his unwavering confidence. He’d repeat that for days on end, at each of their sessions, circling back to it under any given opportunity. He argued, he explained, he bargained, he begged. He was showing weakness and he despised himself for it – after all, it was the fastest way to be eaten alive here, quite literally, too – but he had no saying in the situation. Being humble and at least somewhat honest was the only way to get Joan to listen for real. His pride still stung, sure, but it was a small price to pay for a chunk of him back in his possession.

Right?

**_Darling, we all know you pinned the guy from the moment you saw him on that show way back then, but honestly, how about we swoon over someone who is capable of humane treatment, hmm?_ **

_~Like who? It’s not like we left any stone unturned here. Slim pickings, remember? ~_

**_What about that new orderly from the third floor? His shoulder line sure seemed appealing._ **

_~Oh, please. Have you seen his chin? It’s – le gasp! – not square! We can’t pin a guy with a round chin, it’s ridiculous. And the eyes? If those meek dirty-brown eyes are what turn you on, suit yourself, but we’d rather stay away from that. Yuck~_

Tuning out the argument in his head with a practiced struggle, John stepped closer, tracing the lines of the photo for who knows which time during this hour only. It was nothing short of a small miracle he got it in the first place. When he got back to the Old Five Points from that funeral, he was still so thrilled, so giddy that – of course, as his nowadays, wiser self would sigh – _of course,_ he mentioned it in his conversation with Harley. After she had a generous laugh at his expense, his former crush explained – not quite being afraid of abusing the form of her expression methods—

**_She called you an idiot, babe. ‘Adorable, but still an idiot’, if three of us recall the quote correctly._ **

 – what an outlandish thing he managed to pull. Not only did he succeeded in getting a selfie with the famous playboy, philanthropist and billionaire – an accomplishment on its own, considering that he was John Doe, literally, a no one from nowhere – but he did so at the least possible moment. The most bewildering fact, however, was Bruce’s expression. Tried as he might, with all his experience in noticing tensed mimics and forced smiles thrown his way, after hours of staring at it, John had to surrender and admit one simple, tiny truth, which made him so possessive of the picture in the first place.

Bruce’s smile, however small, was genuine.

**_Aww, it’s so sweet, darling. So sweet I’d puke if I could. Do I need to remind you how it ended or could you just open your eyes and look around?_ **

_~Bruce still thinks of us as his friend…~_

**_Can you two stop the stupidity breakout, please? We were a means to an end! A tool! You really want to do remembering the hard way?_ **

He didn’t like admitting it, but if there was one thing John tried to avoid for as much as he could, it was reminding himself of what happened at Ace Chemicals. Well, none of those _rude_ cops who stormed into the asylum right after he was thrown to his cell, cared to the slightest about what he liked. Or wanted. He hated all the questions barraged his way when he stubbornly ditched the subject, their persistence gnawing holes in his already shattered sanity. They probably saw it, but frankly, didn’t give a damn. They needed answers. Confessions, either voluntary or not. To them, he was a liability, so what if he was still bleeding or haven’t slept for days or was just realizing how royally he fucked up not only himself but Bruce too.

He remembered biting on his lip till he could actually feel the blood dripping down his chin. Remembered laughter, chocked and strangled, and suffocating. Remembered hyperventilating and freaking out at the slightest of sounds, nails digging deep into his own flesh.

There was someone – he hoped it was Bruce, he could’ve sworn it was Bruce, but of course it was not – who interfered with the interrogation and barked all of the cops off. The one who had prevented him from ripping his own face to smithereens or lashing out with bared tooth and nail, literally. It took John all his time in the solitary to realize it was Joan. Who else cared about him at this point?

She tried talking to him about the matter too, far less intrusive, clearly, and way more professional, but John shut her away all the same. He was genuinely grateful for her protection, but couldn’t help himself. He loathed all the looks, the sounds, the smells which were burned into his memory. Maybe… okay, maybe he even was… anxious… for the lack of better word, about reliving the cackling laughter and the unmistakable, unforgettable roar of the Voice, echoing in his skull. The mere thought of it made him shiver as if cold, and John caught himself hugging his own sides, unconsciously, shrinking into oneself, a nervous, strangled laughter bubbling in his throat.

Perhaps he was just cold?

Finding refuge in its soothing lie, John latched onto the thought.

Right! Right. Cold tiles, numbed toes, that was it. Nothing more to it. Where were those damned slippers when he needed them…?

_~He wouldn’t lie to us on such a sensitive topic… would he? He knew how important it was for us~_

**_Do you even remember his words? ‘You were my friend’, WERE, as if in the PAST tense. Face it, darling, before it’s too late for all of us! Your prince charming turned out to be a simple hooker and the second your usefulness run dry, he flew the coop._ **

The slippers turned out to be under the further corner of the bed. Wondering how the hell they ended up there, John desperately resisted the urge of wriggling into the corner instead of pulling them out. It proved to be quite challenging, he had to admit. It was a stupid, childish reaction – to hide from your problems and let them solve themselves. The problem was, few layers of a mattress and a squeaky, rusty frame wouldn’t make the quarrel in his head any less thunderous.

**_Sure he wouldn’t lie to us about being friends. Just as he didn’t lie about everything else! You can’t be serious! Not after he tossed us here while everyone else got a slap on the wrist! Mustache was ordering cops around during our transfer, so he must've helped him to get his place back. He promised to weasel his kitty out of this mess, unscratched, and he probably did. And considering his... distraction... was nowhere around and not in cuffs with us, he didn't charge her after she killed the riddling scum and pinned it on US!_ **

John had to sit to weather the storm, pulling the slippers on absentmindedly. His head hurt and pounded at every screech of one of the voices’ hysteria. Still, he couldn’t say he didn’t agree with what he heard. If only there was some kind of volume regulation to tone it down…

**_That was one hell of a punishment, to let her go! What happened to his precious code? Grr, it wouldn't surprise me if he offered her to take OUR place at his side!_ **

He hated when the voices made too much sense.

When the volume was borderline rupturing his skull, John’s hand slipped to the crook in the mattress, fishing out few small, round pills. Luckily, they were not quite soiled, just a bit chipped on the edges. Sure, given his vast experience in the matter, he could gobble meds at any state of spoilage without water, but he tried avoiding it if he could. What was the point of eating unnecessary dirt? It wasn’t like he’d get sick anyway. John needed something much worse to knock him out – thanks to the invaluable ‘help’ of the orderlies and doctors from the years long past, he had quite a throughout picture of what his twisted body could take without shutting down for good.

_~Maybe he'd like her instead of us because we injured him so badly? ~_

John swallowed hard, feeling his breaths becoming short and erratic. Pills were halfway down his throat, but would it be enough? He clearly didn’t like where the conversation was headed, and it wasn’t only because it mentioned Ace Chemicals.

**_Say it again?_ **

Just a little bit more till his twisted physiology let the active component of the meds kick in. True, he’d burn through them like he had with painkillers or sedatives or whatever doctors threw his way before, but at least meds had their effect almost instantly. Why wouldn’t the voices bicker and cuss during the only moment he really, _really_ wanted if not needed them to?

 _~Do you recall, back when the… the_ newcomer _left, we came to our senses at the control room? Brucie was there too, right before he had passed out. Remember all the blood when we pulled—what was it, was it a Batarang? Yeah, yeah, I think it was. All smooth and warm and crimson. It was splashing all funny and a bit painful when we tried pulling it out~_

He found himself with fists full of his own hair, pulling hard, nails digging at his own scalp. When he was drugged against his will, it took what, seconds? At least it felt like it. Yet when he needed them so badly, sure, meds were taking their sweet, sweet time to work their magic! Why _now_? Why weren’t voices getting quieter?

**_I remember tearing our hand through it to get free. What’s your point?_ **

As he was shooting cornered glances around the room, John was hit with a hard acknowledgment that he didn’t want to hear any of the voices. Not another word. It was bordering on something he really wasn’t ready to deal with.

Was the room spinning or was it his head because of him hyperventilating?

Distraction! He needed a distraction!

_~Yeah, but remember why we did it? Because we thought we--~_

Last words came out as a jumbled noise as John allowed himself to trash against the wall just so he won’t have to hear any it. Pain pierced his right arm, from the damaged palm right up to the spatula, echoing in his head. Even his vision blurred for a second there. But it was okay. It was better – far better – than having any of that—that nonsense the voices were spatting. 

Letting out a long, tired sigh, John allowed himself to back from the wall until the bedframe caught back of his knees and he flopped down on the thin mattress.

Alone at last.

Why was he so resentful towards the room being quiet, again…?

Allowing his cramped up muscles to gradually unknot themselves, John couldn’t help but let out an agitated hiss. His palm burned like he drenched it in one of the Freeze’s compounds – which he did on more than one occasion, accidentally, but luckily, Popsicle-man was nowhere near to see John playing with… err, making some ground-breaking reactions with his chemicals. Nonetheless, it was somehow nice. Not the-way-he-preferred-nice kind of hurt, but still. Maybe because of the memories of simpler, more pleasant times it brought? Oh, the _hilarious_ rage blue man had every single time he found his makeshift lab tempered with! Although, Freeze had only himself to blame, really, for throwing the gauntlet by his attempts at enhancing the security and keeping John entertained for weeks on end.

Ah, the good old days.

John caught himself giggling lightly, reminiscing on brighter parts of living at Old Five Points, however, giggles quickly died into a heavy sigh which sounded heartbroken even to his own ears. His eyes darted back to the photo on the nightstand.

He wasn’t going to see the chaotic, deafening and surreal but so, _so_ alluring world outside ever again, was he…?

No, nope, that was some dangerous train of thought to follow. That line of thinking was for downers! And he couldn’t be one. After all, he was the Joker! Even Batsy approved that name for him. Right? He couldn’t feel down. He got released from Arkham once and was positive he could get to that point again if he put his heart into it. Then again, he didn’t have half a dozen murders pinned to his medical record last time Dr. Leland had signed his release papers, but oh well. Challenges only spiced things up. It was only a question of finding any energy necessary for carrying out a plan as grand as that.

And that little detail was probably the biggest problem he had at the moment.

Since now he was safe from voices’ peaking curiosity, John could finally admit to… simply not feeling like trying anymore. He craved for the outer world, that was plain as day, but… what was the point, if – _once_ , he angrily corrected himself – he got behind Arkham’s gates once more? There was no Harley to introduce him into Pact now. No Old Five Points, no Ha-Hacienda to get back to when the buzz of the city became unbearable. And regarding his vigilante persona… well… it seemed that now it was more like persona non grata in Gotham, so that path seemed to be blocked, too. He didn’t really want to dwell on ordinary nine-to-fivers because…

John let out another long, melancholy sigh.

…because how in the ever-loving hell could he, after swooping in with his grand debut to save his hero, after fighting alongside Batman against the Agency and thugs like Bane alike, after having a joyride in the Batmobile, after having _a dream come true_? How could he look at the possibility of becoming a part of the office zombie hoard and not have a sudden, almost irresistible urge to choke on his own meds instead?

There was just… no point, really.

Maybe… since there was no one there, not even the voices to nag John about it afterwards, maybe he could allow himself to mope around for a bit? To have a momentary weakness of sorts. Just… let it slide downhill, maybe even give the situation a slight push, and enjoy the intoxicating feeling of the free-fall for as long as it could last. It wasn’t like there was someone who’d miss him after the inevitable crash-landing.

Geez. Those meds really forced him into the blues. And while yes, he did look stunning in each and every ensemble, thank you very much, he preferred purple and green options. Though, John argued with himself – who’d need inner voices for that, pfff – there was no harm in cutting some slack for oneself once in a while, right? He wanted to relive some of the previous situations and re-talk few of his interactions with Bruce anyway, so…

Naturally, the moment he decided to sulk into imagination to his heart’s content – or at least till he had run out of voice-shushing pills – observing the photo absentmindedly and playing imaginary what-ifs in his head, there were heavy, irritated steps outside of his door, followed by lighter, more cautious ones. Sure thing, they stopped right outside of his door.

Ugh. Could a legitimately ill man have some well-deserved solitude?

“Visitor for John Doe,” a familiar annoyed voice announced, at least pretending to sound professional, then the latches screeched with rust, and the service hatch was unlocked with an ear-piercing squeak.

John blinked at the hatch, mind racing. Was it Dan’s voice? Seemed like it. He was one of the newer orderlies, from the first floor, which was at least some good news.  Dan may have hated his job, but, frankly, not enough to look the other way when someone was beaten to a bloody pulp for ‘interrogation purposes’ in front of him if said somebody had chosen his legal right to remain silent.

Skimming quickly through the list of possible visitors (which wasn’t that long, to be honest), John had to suppress an aggravated growl. Was that obese, intrusive cop here again to aimlessly bother him about that incident back at Ace and make his crude remarks? Maybe Bruce should’ve let John kiss that meaty head goodbye with a crowbar back at the riddling scumbag’s hideout…? Na-ah, Brucie was too sensitive and probably would’ve scolded John for that. Or even worse, would’ve somehow convinced himself that it was all his fault instead of John’s idea of fun. Talk about a difference in perspective, eh?

Not really pretending to be enthusiastic about the whole ordeal – and, more realistically, wondering what would be the consequences if he lashed out at that _rude_ Bullock guy – John slid from the bed and opened the hatch to glare out.

A degrading joke he was already cooking up in his mind died on his lips and his heart skipped a beat. The next moment he was smiling, blurring out the obvious without even realizing it:

“Bruce!”

Because instead of Bullock’s sweated mug he was greeted with a sight he hadn’t even hoped to see again. Not after the desperation to hear a heart beating through the thick layers of ridiculously expensive armor, not after all the blood splattered on the black Kevlar, not after the fallout.

And yet, there he was, standing in the dimly lit Arkham’s corridor, bending slightly to see through the hatch, with that slight, genuine smile which begged to be captured on the photograph. None other than _Bruce Wayne_ , the golden boy of Gotham city, philanthropist, billionaire and a guy messed up so much, he rivaled John in that regard. In the flesh! And a thousand-dollar suit, which looked so sharp oh him, John could’ve sworn he could shave with it.

“Man, am I glad to see you,” he didn’t want to suppress a happy giggle. Was he nervous? Maybe. A little. Or maybe he was just giddy to see his best bud in the most unexpected circumstances. “I-I mean I’m a bit astonished. But glad regardless.”

Something flashed in Bruce’s eyes, something which bordered on… surprise? John took a good, hard look and… Yep. There it was, right in that deep, steel-blue eyes of his. Genuine, just like that smile Bruce had before, and just as sheepish. The big black bat wasn’t used to feel welcome around people? Gosh, and John thought _he_ had it bad when it came to having social skills! They really were the same stitch after all.

The funniest thing in this entire ordeal was the fact that John was happy to see Bruce _for real_. He meant what he said – like he always did. All the bickering, differences, fighting and Arkham aside, he was relieved to see Bruce standing in front of him.

So… why wasn’t he talking?

John tilted his head to the side, “Uh… Bruce? You okay in there, buddy?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry, John. Spaced out for a second there,” there was a slight pause while Bruce was examining his expression. John couldn’t help but wonder what the other man was searching for and whether he found it. “It’s nice to see that you’re in a good mood.”

The man even sounded just like John had remembered it! A bit tenser, maybe, but they weren’t alone, so that was expected, knowing how that big Batbrain worked and how paranoid gears inside of it could turn. It wasn’t like there was something else to be tense about, right? Both of them could relax, really.

“Why wouldn’t I be? You’ve just made my day! It’s so rare to see a friendly face around,” John quickly found himself resting his arms on the window frame, leaning forward and resting his chin on them to see better. When did he sit on the floor before the door, exactly? Oh, who cared! Now he could watch Brucie without squatting awkwardly. Yeah, the tiles were ice-cold and his body won’t be thankful afterwards, but it wasn’t important now. “Say, you-- There’s no chance you’re going to stay in here like you did last year, no?”

“Not really,” his smile became somewhat apologetic. “I came to visit you. Sorry it took me so long.”

“Too bad. I could really use a roommate,” John pouted his lips. Sure, he had two roommates in shape of voices, but those were nowhere as nice to hang with as good old Brucie. He tried his best to grin. “But no worries! We both know you can’t stay in one place for too long. You’ve got places to be, people to see, all the fun stuff. Care to share the recent news? I don’t get to watch the TV now.”

At least, not after those three idiots. Ugh! They were the one who started it, and yet when the reports reached her, Joan proposed _him_ to ‘refrain from group interactions, for now’. It simply wasn’t fair. Like the life itself, it seemed.

Bruce seemed to be taken aback by the news, too.

“You don’t?” the billionaire paused to let John elaborate on the topic, but when he didn’t, Bruce just sighed and continued with a shrug. “There’s not much to tell about. The boardroom scuffles and investors are breathing down everyone’s necks. I wouldn’t call it fun, to be honest, but someone has to take care of it.”

“Huh? Who’d have thought.”

Now that was thought-provoking. Sure, Batsy over here couldn’t talk about his noble crime-fighting business, but why wouldn’t he at least mention how Batman was doing out there? Wasn’t there any news about the caped crusader which were more important than board meetings? With the Pact being struck down, Gotham’s underbelly had some vacuum to be filled. There had to be at least _some_ turf wars, considering how much territory Bane managed to grab for the gang with his men and Freeze’s tech.

Was Bruce avoiding the topic because he saw it as too sensitive for John? It was ridiculous! Brucie wouldn’t think of him as a crybaby. So why would he be so elusive? It wasn’t like Batman of all people could go on vacation or something--

Wait a minute.

Bombs at the roof. A hand in the black glove, gripping left side of the armor. Brief grunts and grimaces of pain when he thought no one saw or couldn’t hold on anymore. The Jokerang piece. The taser. The knife. Bits and pieces, clicking together, like an ugly puzzle – the one that insufferable ‘Who-Am-I’ would have liked, which made it even worse.

Joker hated himself for remembering so clearly now. The hazy blur of ignorance was so much more comforting than being painfully aware of the damage he had inflicted, even if he still felt like he witnessed everything from the sidelines instead of experiencing personally.

Too bad beggars can’t be choosers.

He could see it now, when he knew where to look and what to seek. And certainly, the hints were all there. The way Bruce stood, the way he held his body mass and how he avoided using muscles on his left side and those tense lines on his face…

The occasions when John wanted to slap himself were rare, but this was surely one of them.

So John offered as nonchalantly as he could muster, maintaining a wide friendly grin:

“Come on, you don’t have to play the Crooked Man here, we have plenty of candidates already. How about you take a step back, so you can see me properly without bending? We both know you’re tough as nails, but it-it feels weird to see you like that, you know?”

For a moment, Bruce had that bewildered expression someone has when they're unsure whether they should be impressed, surprised or just accept the reality for what it is. John couldn’t help but giggle at the spectacle, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the sound didn’t have a bitter undertone. He wasn't laughing _at_ Bruce, after all, he was laughing _with_ him! Big brutal Batsy over there was so sure in his stoic expression, in the sanctuary of ‘I’m-fines’ he built, but John knew better. He saw emotions through that cowl of his, sure he could do the same when there was only a business suit in the way.

Tsk-tsk-tsk. Same old Brucie, underestimating him once again. At least the guy wasn't as shocked as he was during first few times.

“You’re as attentive as always,” the billionaire replied after a second he took to pull himself out of awe. As he straightened, John noticed the tiniest of relieved sighs he let out. There was a shadow of a smile on his lips again. “Thanks. I already feel better.”

John’s grin, however wide, shifted into something tenderer. Bruce’s attempts at blatant lying were amusing at worst and endearing at best.

“That’s what buddies are for,” he shrugged and then cackled. “Can’t really beat good old Al on nagging you to take care of yourself, but I can try. No harm in that, am I right?”

He stopped for a moment, intrigued by a mix of emotions flashing in Bruce’s eyes. John figured that mentioning the only father figure Bruce had – the only other person caped crusader was so soft and open with – was a safe bet in the conversation, but taking his reaction into account, he wasn’t so sure anymore. Did Bruce have a fight with Alfred? Yikes!

“Besides,” he scrambled, not exactly sure what he was going to say, but not liking the idea of _sad_ Bruce enough to say it regardless. His mind raced for anything, any topic for the conversation until he noticed Bruce subconsciously wincing from pain, and his train of thought derailed, violently. Taking a deep breath and averting his gaze for a moment, John managed. “I feel responsible for that… kind of.”

He couldn’t help but shiver at the memory of the Voice’s roar, echoing in his mind’s ear.

Despite circumstances, he really deserved to be thrown in here, didn’t he…?

Bruce’s eyes widen for a solid second there. It was so much obvious without the cowl. Then again, maybe not, considering the contrast between black armor and shining white lenses. Still. Why was he so… oh. Did he honestly think John would start babbling about Ace, so Dan could see connections between the extravagant billionaire and Batman?

John wanted to sigh but restrained himself due to how somber, almost greyish Bruce’s eyes were. Silly Batsy. Expectedly paranoid, but still silly. If he wanted to shout out Batman’s identity, he would’ve already done it, wouldn’t he? And even if he did, who’d believe a madman from Arkham?

“What I mean is-- You know… For all that Wayne Enterprise shenanigans with us,” he weaseled away with another shrug, his smile dropping down a little. “You’re the CEO, so I thought you-- well, they did try to kick you out last year, but I-I hope you didn’t get into trouble because of what Harley and I did back there.”

It wasn’t what he meant to say, but he was sorry for that too, regardless. He thought that maybe Bruce was going to scold him for the guard at the lobby, but first of all, the guy knew what kind of job he signed up for, so he shouldn’t have been that surprised for a bit of roughing up. Secondly, he wasn’t dead, so everything wasn’t that bad. Thirdly, even that _impolite_ woman at the elevator had run off mostly unscratched. And last but definitely not least, never has John ever mentioned Tiffany to Harley after the Phalanx key ordeal. He kinda did it before, when he came back from the funeral, but never after the vault promise. The last thing he needed was a reputation for having a big mouth – which he already had, literally, and that only added to the obvious irony. 

There was a pause, and then…

“I'm fine, so don’t beat yourself up for it,” Bruce cooed looking him straight in the eyes. They were still sad, but at least their color was back. “Given the circumstances, it could've ended worse. So it’s okay.”

John had this feeling that Batsy here wasn’t talking about Wayne Enterprise at all. And if he really didn’t, the consequences could’ve been… _grave_ , indeed. He chortled, feeling his breaths becoming erratic again, nails digging into the bandages on his right palm, as he gritted his teeth.

“No,” he barked humorlessly, his grin gone. Broken tiles on the floor suddenly seemed so fascinating. He couldn’t help but wonder whose head was used to break each and every one. “No, it’s not.”

Bruce sighed and stepped closer, squatting in front of the hatch, so their faces would be on the same level. There was some side babble he had to dismiss while doing so, something about his own safety and visitor’s guidelines. It was all just white noise. Was the orderly implying that John could hurt Bruce? But he never…! Ugh, okay, he would _never again_ do anything so stupid!

But he already did, didn’t he?

It was only logical that he could do it again. Use his distorted self-preservation instinct and twist it into a weapon. It happened _twice_ in a span of what, few weeks? Sure, those were stressful, sleep and self-care deprived, dance-with-the-death kind of weeks, but it wasn’t an excuse.

John couldn’t trust himself. No one could.

Not even Bruce.

Especially not _Bruce_.

“John, please, stop that, you’re hurting yourself,” the real, right-in-front-of-him Bruce asked softly. It was so soothing, the edge John worked himself on seemed to dull and he obediently pulled his fingers away from the blood-tinted bandage. “There. Now. Can you look at me?”

When he didn’t look up, Bruce paused and then used the same tone John used when he asked his hero to keep the Batarang:

“Please?”

Despite everything, John found himself smiling wobbly. The moment Bruce chose to become a crime-fighting vigilante, Gotham had lost one hell of an actor.

“With sugar on top?” he pondered aloud.

Did Bruce have to suppress a snort? Because it definitely felt like that, even if his face was as stoic as ever – and knowing the guy, it probably was.

Avoiding eye contact was becoming increasingly more difficult.

“Yeah, with a pile of sugar on top,” Bruce agreed and tried to carefully press further. “I can even add some whipped cream and a cherry.”

“You drive a hard bargain, mister,” John played along, bursting into laughter. The café talk felt like it was a lifetime ago. And in a way, it was. So when he finally faced those steel-blue eyes, whose owner probably felt like that, too, he could only grin helplessly. They finally stumbled out of awkward. It felt great and bittersweet and intoxicating. “I miss frappes here, you know.”

Not only them, obviously. The vastness of the city – humming, buzzing, screaming and bleeding to its heart content. Sky, pierced by the skyscrapers’ spires. Space so colossal it was frightening. Colors and smells and tastes which differed so much from Arkham’s bleached out dullness of dried up blood. The startling awkwardness and the exciting thrill of being the new guy.

His humming, wonderful blanket of lights.

 _His own self_ , free and untangled from the cat’s cradle he had weaved himself.

“I’ll ask Dr. Leland if I can bring those in,” Bruce promised and continued before John could argue. “Look. I know things aren’t looking great now, but we’ll pull through. You just have to trust me and concentrate on your therapy.”

John couldn’t help but scowl a bit, grumbling:

“The deal suddenly became a lot less alluring.”

“John, I mean it,” the other man was having none of it, of course. To add to it, he was using that stern fatherly voice John found himself hard to resist to. “If you ever want to be released from Arkham, you need to get better. You need to take it seriously.”

“Even if-- okay, okay, _when_ , don’t give me that look… Geez. When I get out of here, what’s next? I have nowhere to go to.”

There was no Pact now. No money, no shelter, no connections. No old habits or some dubious fame to fall back to. He wasn’t even sure his former pals would greet him back after everything. In addition, it wasn’t like the Mustache wasn’t going to bury him alive once he was out.

The odds were all against him.

“I promised I wouldn’t abandon you,” Bruce pointed, clearly noticing the inner struggle John found himself in. He tried to lean further so he could emphasize his words, but winced slightly, turning his polite smile into something more forced. “I meant it. What kind of man would break a pinky promise?”

Fighting – and loosing – from smiling a wobbly grin, John merely nodded:

“Clearly not my best bud.”

It felt so much like funhouse all over again. Despite everything, they still tried to trust each other.

It was almost too good to be true.

Not really thinking through what he was about to do, John slid his hand through the hatch, feeling his shoulder joint screaming at him about abuse. It didn’t matter. For once, he wanted – _needed_ – to be sure.

“Two threads in the same stitch,” he hurried out, pinky stretched out in a plea obvious for the two of them.

Others were watching. His skin was crawling from their intent, dirty, hungry gazes. He was showing desperation, which meant he was vulnerable. There was blood in Arkham’s muddy waters, but this time it truly was his. With this gesture he practically ruined everything he had built since coming back. It didn’t matter.

There was someone else’s hand almost instantly, its grip vicelike on his wrist. Despite his hatred towards unwanted touches, it, too, didn’t matter.

Nothing but Bruce’s answer did.

“Bound together, even under strain,” Bruce continued their – only their and nobody else’s – line as he carefully hooked their pinkies together.

And for a moment, John just let himself smile and believe that things were really going to be okay.

Typically, the frailty of a shared moment ended up quite abruptly.

“Now this is enough, Mr. Wayne,” Dan demanded, forcefully unlinking their hands. “I know you are one special snowflake and all, but this is a strict violation of Arkham’s visiting rules. Even for a guy of your caliber. You know he shouldn’t even be visited and still—“

Dan’s words implied that Bruce shouldn’t have been here. Now that was interesting. And so nice of him.

Almost… too nice?

“My apologies, I got lost in a moment there,” Bruce rose to his feet as gracefully as he could, given his condition. The mask of a carefree golden boy was back at its place in a snap. John marveled on it for a moment, but it was too sugary even for his liking. “I understand your vigilance, and thankful for it, but I hope you can let my friend go now?”

There was something eerie in that hope’s undertone, though. Something dark and demanding, vicious enough to keep John’s attention latched onto it instead of breaking free of orderlies’ grip. It was familiar. Intriguing even. The tiny, repressed core, toxic and sinister, which was hidden oh so well behind Bruce’s numerous masks and formidable willpower – the one which captivated John so much.

Luckily for him, Dan wasn’t a complete idiot and sensed the danger.

“Right,” he turned back to John, releasing his wrist. “Appendages back in the room. The visit is over.”

“So soon?” John pouted, rubbing his wrist absentmindedly. “Shouldn’t it be an hour or so?”

He did need a warden card after all, so why not add good old Danny over there to the list of voluntary donators? It wasn’t like the orderlies didn’t know that John didn’t like to be manhandled when he didn’t do anything wrong.

He’d deal with it later.

“Not when you’re on the ‘difficult’ list, it’s not. And not after such violation of the rules. Be grateful Mr. Wayne doesn’t make a fuss now and nothing happened. Touching a visitor could end you up in the solitary,” Dan informed him irritably, reinforcing John’s choice of target.

“It was completely my fault--“, Bruce tried, but the orderly was adamant.

“I understand, Mr. Wayne, but I don’t wanna lose my job for this,” Dan checked his watch and nodded to himself before turning to the hatch. “Robert and Michel will be here in five minutes to get you to therapy. You’d better not make things difficult again.”

“When was I ever difficult?” John chimed innocently, showing his open palms as a sign of peace and ignoring Dan’s glare with ease. His gaze never left Bruce’s face, trying his damnest to burn the image in his memory. Sure, he had the photo, but it was much better. This Brucie was alive! And real. And not imaginary.

Unlike all previous ones he talked to back at the solitary.

Definitely not.

Right?

“I’ll visit you again as soon as I can,” definitely-not-imaginary Bruce promised, and John nodded in agreement.

“See you around, Bruce! Even though you probably aren’t real, it was still nice of you to drop by,” he managed before the hatch was abruptly closed in front of his face. The latches screeched back in place, cutting John from the rest of the world, even if it was something as tiny as Arkham.

He was able to make out a muffled “Aren’t real…?” followed by louder, annoyed “This way, Mr. Wayne,” and when the footsteps faded in the distance, he was left alone once more. Everything was just the same, except his body shivered violently from the cold. Then again, maybe not only from that.

How long had he been sitting here?

How long was he going to?

Did it matter?

John pressed his forehead to the unfeeling wood of the door and closed his eyes, feeling maniacal laughter bubbling at the back of his throat. Pills or no pills, this was way too much. He dug his nails into the wood, trying to grasp onto reality. It didn’t help much.

Bruce was here, by bribing his way in, probably. Despite everything, he still considered him a friend. Instead of blaming John for everything, he tried to reassure and humor him, and that was definitely worth something. Once the dance around Ace’s topic was over, the conversation almost felt… normal. Heartwarming and casual and familiar enough to forget it’s Arkham they were in. Bruce even pinky swore everything was going to be fine, and when that guy made a promise, he tended to keep them, it seemed.

It was too good to be true.

So it… it probably… wasn’t true at all.

John gave in and threw his head back, laughing his pain out.

He knew he was prone to playing what-ifs in his head, to replaying some scenes till they went like he wanted them to, till he was comfortable enough and things played out the way he intended them to. But this… this was a whole new level of insanity, even for his own standards.

“Oh, Joan would _love_ to hear about new symptoms,” John croaked out loud just to hear something in the silence that followed, as he curled in front of the door, too spent emotionally to reach the bed. “Hey, guys! You think we can double up to make room for Brucie over there? The more, the merrier!”

No one answered. Other inmates were too cautious of his violent fits, and the meds haven’t worn off, yet. So he laid and he laughed because he felt that if he didn’t, he’d shatter completely. So he laughed and clawed at his flesh to feel at least something real – because the pain was one of the few constants rooted in reality.

And dear god, he could surely use a reality anchor now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Okay. Here we go. I still have anxiety attacks over this, so bear with me, please.  
> First of all - I'm not a native speaker and this is my first full-Eng project. I've studied English for a long time, but there are things non-natives may miss or slip up at. So if you notice some kind of mistake - feel free to mention it! I'd be glad to correct it.  
> Secondly - I'm not sure how often I can upload new chapters (if anyone would be even interested in those, heh), because real life is a pain in the lower regions, and I have to double or triple-check all of the chapter's text before I can convince myself that it's at least somewhat decent and people won't facepalm at my stupidity. So it takes time, too. Sorry about that. As I mentioned, it's my first project of such size, where I'm not sure in the language I'm using. Please be patient with me.  
> And last but not least, kudos to Zennfir who had survived for a few weeks now of me being obsessive of Telltale and especially John. Hugs to you, sunshine ( ˊᵕˋ )♡.


	3. Dance, dance, dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for great supportive and inspiring comments and kudos. I never thought this work would gain any attention at all! It's so exciting! 
> 
> _Important Spoiler Tags:_ depression, self-loathing, self-neglect, guilt-tripping, mentioned physical abuse, implied hallucinations, mental issues

_When I'm old and grey, or thirty, or whatever happens first_

_I'll need you to reassure me I didn't waste a verse_

_Or worse, what if my life's work is reduced to just myself_

_Like never let you get a word in, while I dissect my mental health_

_Or lack thereof, whatever, there's too many things to track_

_I really can't remember if I'm insane or insomniac_ (c.) Icon for Hire – Hope of Morning

 

The wise man who said that money solves problems instead of creating them clearly didn’t have the amount Bruce Wayne had to operate with.

Ever since he decided to participate more in his business, Bruce started spending most of his days in Wayne Enterprises. Board meetings, discussions, plenary meetings and the unending flood of documents which required his attention were draining at first sight and dreadful in any other regard. Worst of all, they were exhausting in a weird, mind-numbing way which left him at the end of the day, laying in the master’s bed and staring at the ceiling absentmindedly, questioning not only his own sanity, but the sanity of all people who could endure those for decades and feel okay. John’s words about toxic energy coursing through the walls of Wayne Enterprises he didn’t understand at first had rung in his ears far too often lately against his better judgement. More than once he had wondered if he, too, wasn’t cut for such a life.

On the other hand, it wasn’t like he had many other time-consuming activities to use his energy for, anyway.

He preferred not to dwell on those thoughts and instead concentrated on his company’s missed opportunities, practically making himself a workaholic. Not that he wasn’t one before, but clearly his interest was directed to other areas, so to speak. However, since they have become… unavailable... recently, he had a lot of excess time to spare.

Naturally, the few board directors who supported him were quite relieved to see their CEO’s change of heart and renewed business vigor. Others had to either adapt or hide their distaste behind polite smiles and hurriedly pulled up improvement reports. Since the moment Bruce had come back to dealing with things more personally, he obtained quite a draconic reputation among his employees – or rather renewed it in their memory. Although he wasn’t unjust – no, even the worst of his opponents couldn’t accuse him of that – he _was_ demanding. True, Regina was right when she called the company as basically running itself, but Bruce wouldn’t be himself if he hadn’t seen multiple opportunities to make it run even better, forge it into yet another weapon against Gotham’s injustice.

He spent most of the business meetings fighting the never-ending war for city’s tattered soul on yet another battlefield. Although it wasn’t the one he preferred, it didn’t falter his devotion to change Gotham for the better. When Bruce’s opposition tried to prove him that there was no reason for funding the social programs he and his teams elaborated, he needed every drop of it just as badly – if not worse – as he did back when the city and the citizens were rejecting Batman despite he was desperately trying to protect them.

For most days he felt like he was fighting a hydra singlehandedly and fate wasn’t so nice to him to provide a helpful, witty sidekick to figure out how to prevent new heads from re-growing. The only vigilante partnership he ever had ended before it could properly begin, leaving Bruce with a weird aftertaste of something which could be wonderful, but fell apart as suddenly as it did tragically. Despite understanding that it was a painful endeavor, as meaningless as it was fruitless, he had found himself imagining what-if scenarios in which John—no, _Joker_ wouldn’t cross the line. A path in which Ace Chemicals hadn’t become a graveyard for three yet another officers – and a potential alliance the kind of which Bruce never had before.

Or rather, he had never allowed himself before. It wasn’t like Batman’s legend, once it finally took off and was fully-fledged, hadn’t attracted all kinds of attention from the public. If his memory was serving him right, Al found himself rather amused of some of it – and reasonably horrified of the other parts. Bruce could remember how his father figure was scrolling through pages after pages of ‘Bat-devotion’ sites and what kind of argument they had afterwards. How Alfred was concerned with what people wanted from siding with Batman and Bruce dismissed all of it easily because clearly, Batman was more than self-sufficient in the field, so why would he ever consider having a partner? He needed backup from the cave and connections with the police, of course, but dragging someone else to the field was an entirely different ordeal. It was clearly a responsibility and a demand far too great – to treat someone else’s life like he treated his own.

At least, those were Batman’s decrees before Joker happened.

Because the moment green-haired vigilante popped up in front of him like the Jack-in-the-box during his ‘grand debut’, all rules of the loner type and words of self-sufficiency were quickly forgotten under the mask of ‘justifiable necessity’ and haven’t been brought up ever since. 

Notably, when Joker disappeared from Gotham’s nights like an apparition – and Bruce had to find a reason for Tiffany to stay away from field operations, at least, for the time being – said decrees were back at their designated place, as strict and ironclad as before.

Yet another thought Bruce forbid himself from exploring.

He had responsibilities and those were supposed to take priority in his mind, not some counterproductive thoughts, however alluring they were. Gotham depended on him, the same it did before, and being inactive just to dwell on personal loss was far too selfish to be allowed.

All of the work he did still felt wrong, somehow, like he wanted to stretch his whole body during it, but simply couldn’t. He had an idea why he felt like that, but for the sake of his own sanity, he buried that though under immediate goals and aims and plans. It wasn’t that hard, after all, as he was more than used to bottling up his emotions and his real desires for the sense of greater good. Similarly, he just had to convince himself that what he had to do was for the best.

The problem laid in the fact that Bruce couldn’t, however hard he was trying.

And he _was_ trying. Whenever he had heard of yet another mugging or robbery, or killing, he was trying his best not to slip into the old habits, to stay out of Batman’s shadow, to argue with himself that he was a mere civilian now. A civilian with more money any common sense would allow, but still just a civilian. And the one not so welcome in the GCPD, despite his funding project aimed to increase police’s efficiency. Gordon still was way too wary of him, too convinced in ‘Wayne’s offspring’ being an apple as rotten as his family’s tree would suggest. Bruce’s unwilling cooperation with Waller as a mole and even protection he tried to pull for Jim at his office seemed to only convince commissioner further. Because why would the Pact accept Bruce Wayne so quickly as one of their members if he was so law-abiding as he let to believe? Why would Waller, who was infamous for playing dirty, so possessive of the billionaire?

At times, his attempts at cooperation with GCPD out of Batman’s cape were similar to banging his head on the brick wall. If anything, they yielded similar results, to his utter disappointment.

Likewise, he tried his best whenever Arkham was involved. It wasn’t because he had been there himself, and it wasn’t entirely for John’s sake, but he’d be lying to himself, if he didn’t admit to feeling sick upon noticing numerous bruises and skin being broken by restraints on other man’s wrist when John had reached out to him. Despite the fact that Bruce had no expertise in psychiatry – at least, the non-criminal one – he still was rather sure that being restrained to the point of tearing the skin underneath was not a legitimate practice and served no purpose in improving patient’s health, both mental and physical. Besides, he did remember his – thankfully, rather brief – stay within Arkham’s walls, and could vividly evoke personnel’s indifference which bordered on inhumane treatment of the patients. The fact that orderlies would casually mention being asked for a rope or rat poison by patients was… alarming, to put it mildly.

Probably just as – if not more – alarming as the implications he got from John at the end of the only visit he managed to pull. The man clearly thought that Bruce was merely a hallucination, a product of his overly-active imagination, probably, and it wasn’t like Bruce couldn’t hear the fading echo of a way-too-familiar maniacal laugher when he was leaving, which made hair at the back of his neck bristle. He wanted to warn Dr. Leland about his concerns, but couldn't reveal that his visit was successful in spite of her prohibition. He did have a talk with her later that day, however, revolving around the asylum's condition and needs, but Joan was clearly drained from restraining GCPD’s attempts of interrogating the Joker in the manner they saw fit and was in no condition for polite small talks, let alone discussing something as grand as rebuilding of the whole institution without any preparation. Bruce had to leave the asylum with mixed feelings, all of them slowly melting into determination.

Although the concept of Wayne Mental Institute he had in mind before the Children of Arkham ordeal was scrapped, there were many good ideas which could be salvaged from it. He had a number of long phone calls with Dr. Leland when John was ‘still in no condition for a visit’, as she would put it, trying his best to get an inkling of asylum’s current state and problems. The more he learned, the more it seemed like he jumped straight into the rabbit hole with that. Joan’s words were dry and sounded like a diagnosis, but considering it was her working place she had to speak of, Bruce couldn’t blame her for emphasizing on neutrality. He probably would’ve done the same thing in her place.

Trying to attract directors’ attention to the problems of the only Gotham’s mental institution, however, often felt like herding a bunch of stubborn grumpy cats, despite promises of great PR, further distancing from Wayne’s family dirty past or getting a special tax treatment for funding such social project Bruce was using to lure them in. The moment board room heard the name ‘Arkham’, it backed away like a fiend which sensed a priest in close proximity. No one believed the project to be advantageous, not with the financial black hole the asylum seemed to be. All Bruce could do after yet another stalemate in the board room was gritting his teeth and working harder with his team, doing his best.

Too bad that once again his best simply wasn’t enough. Being honest with himself, he felt like it had been that way for a few months now, each failure had cut deeper than the last and successes were shallow and short-lived. If nothing else, he felt that way.

There had to be a solution, somewhere, he knew it, he sensed it, just couldn’t see it yet.

“Bruce, you’re not paying attention at all,” a peeved voice pulled him out of his bleak thoughts, and he startled, as if awoken suddenly, blinking.

Tiffany was standing in front of him with hands on her hips, slightly out of breath and clearly annoyed. Despite the situation’s mood Bruce couldn’t help but feel just the tiniest amount of happiness that at least one recent turn in his life was for the better. Ever since he found out about Tiffany’s involvement in Riddler’s death, she had effectively become his apprentice, and was training restlessly under his supervision. He had to give credit where it was due and admit that she had made incredible progress given the shortage of time both of them had at their disposal.

“I’m sorry, Tiffany, I just got lost in a thought for a moment.”

“I present you the man who chide me for not being focused twenty-four-seven, ladies and gentlemen,” she snorted. “And his dubious double standards.”

Bruce had to suppress a smirk, playing along.

“Ouch.”

“Hey, it’s not like I was the one who demanded that I’ve learned this move by the end of the week,” Tiffany shrugged, but stepped closer and flopped down on the mat near Bruce, waving him off when he eyed her. “I deserve some rest after such workout, mister perfection. I’m working overtime in case you’ve forgotten.”

Bruce just shrugged, swallowing ‘aren’t we all?’, which tickled the tip of his tongue. He knew better than to get into debates with Tiffany’s sarcastic wit over nothing. And it wasn’t like she was lying about overtime, anyway. Perhaps he could pull his strings as a CEO and grant her Lucius’ place as the Head of R&D department, but the thought itself felt… degrading. Insulting, almost. Tiffany was brilliant enough to gain her own place without any favors.

“So,” the young woman pondered aloud, gaining his attention yet clearly looking the other way. “What’s on your mind? You’re not the type to get lost in your head so much you haven’t noticed me waving in front of your face.”

Something akin to embarrassment crept at the back of Bruce’s neck while he tried his best to keep a straight face. Had he been _that_ distracted? Why would he be? He was merely pondering about prospects of improving Arkham and the visit he—

Oh.

“I don’t remember anything like that,” he admitted, his mind struggling with pushing invasive thoughts and feelings to the further corner of his head. “Was I that distracted?”

“Considering I just made it up and you didn’t point it out, yeah, looks like you were,” Tiffany’s attentive gaze was examining his face as she spoke.

Double oh.

Now that was truly embarrassing.

“You know, if I didn’t know better and you really were an insatiable playboy tabloids make out of you, I’d think you had a crush on someone,” she continued with a shrug while Bruce tried his best in keeping a straight face. Why on earth would she consider that of all things to bring up? Just to tease him? “But you’re not seventeen and I can’t see any hot redheads around to tease you for, so I don’t think it’s the case. Which is too bad, it’s not that I get to pick on you without consequences very often.”

“You still remember my high school crush but can’t memorize how to disarm an opponent,” Bruce needled back with a smirk. “Talk about memory priorities.”

“I was seven and you were all doe-eyed, I couldn’t help myself!” Tiffany elbowed him carefully with another snort, but got serious again. “All joking aside, are you okay?”

Bruce answered before even realizing it, the words burned in his core in a far worse way than any physical brand ever could. It was almost a reflex at this point.

“I’m fine, Tiffany,” he added a small smile to ease her concerns. He wasn’t sure it completely worked, but at least her frown disappeared. “The board is just being difficult lately, that’s it.”

“I won’t ever understand how Al manages to put you to sleep considering what a workaholic you are. Do you realize that it’s Sunday and you aren’t supposed to think about board meetings? In case you don’t remember, you still hadn’t recovered from that ma-- from the incident,” she corrected herself hurriedly, noticing how his mood dropped instantly and his jaw clenched.

Bruce didn’t want to bristle at her, honestly, he didn’t. It was just… the wound was way too fresh to rub any additional salt in it. The amount he had there was comparable to Salar de Uyuni and was more than enough already.

“You should be resting instead of herding directors into doing their jobs,” the young woman tried again, softly and far more careful with her wording this time.

He forcefully reminded himself it was Tiffany he was talking to, calmed himself and deadpanned: “Business never sleeps.”

“Last time I checked your name was Bruce.”

He had to suppress rolling his eyes. She sounded almost worried. Had Al talked with her lately about his condition? Stitches did bleed occasionally when he had pushed himself too far and painkillers became a somewhat constant addition to his daily menu, but it wasn’t that bad, for the most time. Physical pain he was accustomed to dealing with. Batman received more injuries than he cared to remember, and some of them were rather serious. However, it was his mind which bothered him lately, and it wasn’t like he could open up to the ones who suffered from the very cause of his pensiveness.

Tiffany’s pained yelp as her palm got pierced through still rang in his mind’s ears. The surgeon who treated her wound admitted it was nothing short of a miracle none of the metacarpals were damaged. The fact that it was merely a palm instead of her skull which was impaled with the Jokerang was even more miraculous.

Bruce couldn’t burden her with his struggles. Not after he had failed her.

Not after all of her blurts regarding the topic.

“Okay, tough guy,” Tiffany stood up, dusting her sweatpants. “I should be going home. I’ve got a lot of work planned for tomorrow and I intend to have some rest before it. So should you, in case you already forgotten.”

“Why won’t you stay?” Bruce proposed, watching her. “Al won’t mind some company and I can give you a ride to the office tomorrow.”

“And how would that look when I step out of your car?” she smirked, but her slowed down movements gave away she was considering the idea. He could understand the appeal of staying in any place where someone you considered close dwelled instead of returning to an empty apartment.

“It would look like me giving a ride for a family member,” the man shrugged getting to his feet too. He had to grit his teeth for a moment, but luckily Tiffany was looking the other way and hadn’t noticed his momentary grimace. Were the painkillers wearing off already? Maybe his body was adjusting. Or did the training last longer than he had thought? Considering how distracted he’s been, it was rather possible, to his own discontent. He was supposed to be a mentor, and yet here he was, dwelling on his own petty selfish issues.

Disgusting.

“Fine. I’ll go tell Alfred I’m staying for a sleepover,” the vigilante-in-training grinned at him before heading for the gym’s showers. “We both know you’re tough as nails, but go get some rest, too. From the looks of it, you need it.”

A shiver run down Bruce’s spine as those harmless words evoked memories of another voice speaking them and attentive acidic gaze, fixated on him in a way he didn’t even know how to describe. It was so vivid as if Bruce still was staying in dim Arkham’s corridor, looking through a hatch at a man who didn’t hate him – despite the fact that he honestly had every right to. Looking at a face of someone who was euphoric to see him, like a child meeting real Santa Clause with a bag full of toys just for him, as if Bruce wasn’t guilty of letting him slip over the edge. Being bewildered when the very person who should have wanted Batman dead by his own hands suddenly noticed that he was in pain and tried to help him instead of enjoying it.

Perhaps the feeling of being impaled on a rebar wasn’t the worst he had. After all, wounds of conscience healed far worse than any physical injuries.

Despite his better judgement, for a brief moment the billionaire allowed himself to wonder what John would say if he’d seen him like that. He doubted that his inner battle would go unnoticed in such a scenario. No, Bruce could bet all of his fortune against a dime any time that there would be this tender, knowing look in John’s eyes once again as he would suddenly stir the conversation sideways and make his ‘best bud’ feel better in the same bizarre ways he did everything else. After all, however goofy and naïve he may have looked at first sight, John truly was a ‘watcher’ he claimed himself to be – Bruce had to learn it the hard way and still kept making the same dangerous mistake of falling under the same spell and underestimating him.

And maybe, he wasn’t the only who fell for it, either. After all, despite being looked down upon when the Pact was still a thing, John was one of its leaders and was high enough in the hierarchy to vouch for Bruce. Bane brought men, Harley had intel and insight, Freeze provided tech, Riddler was a genius mastermind, albeit a blood-thirsty lunatic with delusions of grandeur, but John? What could a former mental patient provide that ended him up in the ‘elite five’ list, even if on the lower end? And if he didn’t have anything and had to fight his way to the top, it was an even more impressive feat, considering that Riddler was against him and he had less than a year to do so.

It was funny how Bruce just accepted John being somewhere at the top of the Pact, like it was no big deal, like it was almost _expected_ of the pale man to end up there and never asked about it. And now he wasn’t really sure he ever should, all things considered.

In any case, Bruce had to admit it felt rather nice to be impressed by John’s abilities, time and time again. After all, Joker did mesmerize him in both good and bad ways. His mind may have worked in some bizarre patterns, but the attention to details and perception he possessed would have made one hell of a detective out of him, had there been a possibility to train him like he did with Tiffany…

One more dangerous train of thought to follow.

Shaking his head in a vain attempt to shake off the thoughts, Bruce turned the lights off and left the gym, heading for his room to change. He should have finished examining some of the documents sent to him by Regina, but the mess in his head was nowhere near what he believed to be adequate working conditions. His mind was running in circles, stumbling time upon time on the name which was avoided so much – if not outright tabooed – inside the walls of the Wayne Manor.

Well… wasn’t the best way of fighting the temptation to just indulge in it? He had to be realistic. It wasn’t like he didn’t subconsciously plan all of this, leaving a seemingly perfect window in his schedule on a Sunday afternoon after a promise of coming back.

He didn’t want to notice the spring which appeared in his step once he made his decision into a conscious one. He couldn’t – he’d hate himself if he did. Because he didn’t deserve being craved for so desperately and definitely couldn’t allow himself to yearn the friendship of the man he helped to ruin. He didn’t have the right to feel relieved for being accepted with welcoming arms when he did nothing to earn it.

He had to pause his walking, rubbing his throbbing temples. He wasn’t selfish with that decision. The work he had planned for the week was done. He attended each and every meeting being held in the office and even had held a fundraiser from the start to the very end, much to Alfred’s joy. Tiffany was making incredible progress, as eager with her training as ever and even surpassed the milestone he had set for her. Besides, he _had_ promised to come back. John needed him there to be grounded, it was clear as day.

Furthermore, it wasn’t like Bruce couldn’t – or _wouldn’t_ , for that matter – drown himself in self-disgust for being selfish and greedy later that night, once he was alone staring at the bedroom’s ceiling. Arguing with himself whether he was obsessed and admitting that he most likely was obnoxious.

He’d deal with those feelings later (probably never) like he always did.

Shaking out of his daze, the man continued striding through the corridor. Luckily, he was well within visiting hours. Bruce wouldn’t survive as long as he did in CEO’s skin if he didn’t memorize timetables and schedules with learned ease. Still, he called to the asylum’s reception just to be sure. A startled nurse, seemingly unsure it wasn’t some sort of a stupid prank, cautiously confirmed the timetable, verified that ‘Mr. Doe’ was indeed ‘available’, as she put it, and obviously was glad to end the call the very next moment. It was to be expected, he pondered, considering men of his position were probably rare guests at the asylum, when they weren’t thrown in there by their former friends.

Wasn’t it the case when Harvey threw him into Arkham after beating up Penguin? And considering that Batman had sent Two-Face there afterwards, who was the betrayed former friend between them? Was Bruce supposed to feel guilty for a twinge of dark pleasure when he visited Harvey once a month during the courtesy visits? Or was he justified, knowing how easily the roles could have been reversed?

And was it just him or were all of his close friends ending up in solitary cells in the asylum? A disturbing pattern, if it was the case.

Yet another thought added up to the forbidden pile.

Piece by piece, that one was becoming a mountain at an intimidating pace. It seemed Bruce had to bury more of himself than even Batman did. That thought, however morbid, was somehow funny enough to make the man snort.

“It’s nice to see you in a good mood for a change, Master Bruce.”

The tiniest glimpse of a good mood the former vigilante had burst like a bubble, but he smiled as sincerely as he could, looking at the man standing in front of him. After all, why wouldn’t he? Alfred finally was feeling much better. His tremors were gone, his comments became less dry and he smiled much more often. The wrinkles around his eyes became less prominent and for most days he seemed as if suddenly he became younger for a decade. The change was astonishing, and Bruce felt sick of himself for allowing the shadow of Batman to lurk under his skin while he told his father that it was truly gone.

In any case, he didn’t want to discuss the reason behind his chuckle. The conversation he was about to have was already dangerously close to dancing on thin ice in ironclad boots, so he went sideways from the very beginning:

“Al, I was lucky to bump into you, otherwise I'd have to call you.”

The older man raised a surprised eyebrow:

“Are you leaving now? Tiffany informed me she will be staying overnight.”

“Yes, but I will be home in a few hours,” he assured. “I have one last visit for this week.”

"I didn't know you had another business meeting," Alfred commented, his tone unnervingly even and nonchalant for a man who knew Bruce’s schedule even better than the businessman did as he was the one managing it for the most time.

Bruce took a calming breath. The easy part was over, now the real talk had begun.

“I don’t.”

The look in Alfred’s eyes changed in a subtle way, but suddenly they seemed a lot colder and much more distant. Disappointed, even. It hurt. Bruce kept looking. He was selfish in his actions, true, but it wasn’t the main reason why he stood his ground. He was doing what he always did – he tried to save people. Especially those he had hurt himself. This wasn’t the time to budge.

“I see,” there it was again, that dry tone Al was using when he disapproved of Bruce’s actions but was too polite to tell his adoptive son that he’s behaving like an idiot. “Should I assume you are going to Arkham then, sir?”

“You make this sound as if something is wrong with it.”

“Because it is wrong, Bruce," Alfred broke the distance between them and now was looking attentively at the younger man’s face. What was he seeking? Probably not the stubbornness and guilt Bruce had felt. "With all due respect, those visits aren't healthy, for neither of you."

Remembering the way John’s face lit up when he noticed him back at the asylum, Bruce had his doubts considering this particular reason. Still, he tried his best to be fair and let the other man present his arguments first. He didn’t want to fight over this – although, he doubted he won’t have to – and instead wanted to make his family understand his point.

“Why would you think so?”

"You're feeding this broken man even more unrealistic hopes and delusions than he already has. Both of you have lives to rebuild, and you need to concentrate on it."

Despite his own mental arguments, Bruce found himself sighing soundlessly. Why did his life have to be so difficult in every regard? Although, he had seen this coming. It was hard not to notice that both Al and Tiffany were clearly regretting ever meeting John in the first place.

"And I'm preventing this by visiting him how exactly?"

Judging by the thin line of Alfred’s lips and the frown on his face, the seemingly innocent question had made him furious. Bruce braced himself for the storm, and sure, it was quick to follow:

"By dwelling on your shared past. He is a clearly challenged man with a tendency for violence and brutality. You may see your part in maintaining this… relationship… differently, however, you have to understand that for him you are the biggest reminder of either his criminal or his... _vigilante_ , if I’m being very generous and extremely tasteful with the definition, activities. In both instances, he had a great deal of violence in them. I don't think it doesn't hinder his therapy," Alfred sighed, visibly uncomfortable talking about the matter. He had to take a moment to collect his thoughts before putting a reassuring hand on Bruce’s shoulder and giving him a small apologetic smile. "As for you, my boy, you have a family reputation to rebuild, and you are the only one who can do it. Considering the visit you had to make to Wayne Enterprises with Pact brutes, it would be better for you to keep your distance."

Heavens above, Bruce didn’t want to bristle. He truly, utterly didn’t – not at his family. He had to remain calm and make his point in the most reasonable way, and not sound like an irritated teenager, but it was becoming progressively hard to remind himself that Alfred only wanted what was best for him. Even if it bordered on something his boardroom would say – and that was in no way a good comparison.

"Are you implying that I can't visit a friend in need because of a bad PR?"

The older man must have sensed it too, because his smile faded. His gaze remained confident, though.

"No, Bruce, I'm saying that if you truly believe John Doe to be your friend, you will give him space to grow into his own man."

"By leaving him alone in the asylum?"

He’d never thought he would have to ask something like that out loud. It was so outlandish he couldn’t help but stare, not quite believing his ears. The conversation was just spiraling into ridiculous… especially if the answer was ‘yes’. But it couldn’t be. Alfred was the one who got him from the Arkham the previous year! He saw what kind of place it was. Clearly, he couldn’t think it was the right place for someone like John to be left on their own, could he?

Or… was he implying exactly that? That because of the Joker’s actions, he deserved—

No. Bruce didn’t want to make any assumptions about the closest person he had. So he waited for the answer, with blood pumping in his ears and a weird bitter taste which somehow appeared in his mouth.

"By giving him time in an institution meant to help him with professionals who intend to do just that,” Alfred tried placating the younger man, looking firmly in his eyes. He was unwavering in his beliefs. “I do realize that you own and have studied all of the best literature about the criminal psychology world has to offer, but this is not the same. You are not competent in this regard, so leave it to experts."

So it was a ‘yes’.

Bruce closed his eyes for a moment and let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Fine. He could be stubborn, too.

"Given the time I have at my hands now, I might be competent soon,” he put on a smile, almost as if all of this was a joke of sorts. And in a way, it was. “Might as well start now. Would you be so kind as to order new books for my personal library?"

The older man stepped back as if trying to see the whole picture and failing at it.

"Sir, you do realize it won't end well?"

Bruce’s polite smile dropped and he was serious again. He hoped against all hope that he would be heard, despite chances weren’t that reassuring. But he had to try. If there was just a sliver of a chance to make Alfred understand at least partially, he couldn’t give up.

"It won't end well if I'll just abandon him, Alfred. He's completely alone there. I'm the only one who ever visited him. Ever, Alfred. During his whole life,” he tried. “You should've seen him when he saw me, he was so delighted even I was taken aback--"

“Have you already been to Arkham, master Bruce?” Alfred interrupted, obviously more interested in that rather than anything else.

Talk about slip-ups.

Bruce sighed: "Once."

God, he deserved all the guilt he was feeling. Yet he still held his father’s gaze. He, too, wasn’t a coward.

"Why am I not surprised," the other man pondered, straightening his back and keeping his hands behind him now. “Was it back when you had ‘an unfinished business’ and had to come home later than usual?”

“Yes,” there was no point in lying. It wasn’t like he could afford to lie to the few people he had left in his life.

There was a moment of uneasy silence before Bruce dared to try again:

"Al, trust me on this one. Please. He needs me."

He realized his words made things worse before he even finished saying them, but there was no backing out now. The words were spoken and he could only face their consequences with dignity, so he waited with calmness, which reminded him of the collected composure he had back when he was fighting crime in the alleys.

A pleasant memory of simpler and far more enjoyable times.

"I wonder who needs who more," the older man sighed, suddenly losing all of his chiding attitude.

Bruce felt like a five-year-old who was caught with his hand in the cookie jar and was now desperately trying to prove the benefits of stealing cookies to his parent. The sad, sympathetic look Alfred had didn’t help, either. However, it wasn’t a straight rejection, right? Maybe things weren’t as bad as they seemed to be. It was a foolish hope, but he dared to hope. He needed something to hold onto.

“You were the one who said that I can balance him out,” this time he took the step towards Alfred. "Why are you so against it now?"

His father sighed again and finally lost his ‘butler posture’, averting his gaze for the first time during the conversation as if searching for the right words, before looking back with grim determination. He was still silent, clearly debating with himself on whether to speak or not.

“Talk to me, Alfred. I want, no, I need to understand.”

It was so reminiscent of the parlor talk it was eerie. Bruce felt cold lump somewhere in his guts, wiggling, like a nest of icy worms.

If he was to choose again now, would he be able to?

“You won’t like what I’m about to say, but I’m going to say it regardless, for your own sake,” Alfred finally managed with a stoic expression and Bruce’s heart sunk. Was he going to…? "It’s because you are from different worlds, even if, by chance, those worlds overlapped for a few weeks. If he ever gets better and gets out of Arkham, he is way out of your league, Bruce. This friendship of yours, however real it may seem now, won't last. And the more you cling to it and drag it where it doesn't belong, the worse the outcome will be.”

He was silent for a moment before continuing, looking both exhausted and devastated:

“I fear another Ace tragedy. People died there, Bruce,” he paused, voice hitching. “You nearly died there."

It was Bruce’s time to reciprocate the comforting gesture as he tried to catch Alfred’s gaze. He finally got the real reasoning behind his father’s behavior and was thankful for that, despite the words themselves stinging in his mind. It wasn’t the right time to dwell on them. He had all long future nights for just that.

"You don't know it’ll happen for sure," he reassured, allowing his smile to widen just a tiny bit. "And it won't because I’ll prevent it from happening."

"So you've said the first time," Alfred’s chortle was quiet and dry, but if anything, it wasn’t cold or distant. It was the same calm and a bit sarcastic tone Bruce remembered from the long nights at the patrols, when they both knew Alfred would rather have his son home, but said son was too stubborn to stop doing what he believed was right. "Very well, sir. I see that my arguments, as always, won't stop you, therefore I can only hope that my next 'I told you' moment won't include me patching another giant hole in your abdomen. Your books will await you in your office."

“It won’t,” this time the smile was barely visible, but finally fully genuine. “Thanks, Al. I’ll be back home in a matter of hours.”

Despite the fact that he’d like to, Bruce wasn’t fooled by this victory, however small. The talk wasn’t nearly over. Alfred let him have the first round, but once he’d get his footing back from the element of surprise, he’d try to press on the matter again, probably with the help he’d get from Tiffany. Yet, now Bruce could enjoy the ceasefire while it lasted and continue on his way to Arkham.

When he started up the stairs to master bedroom, Alfred’s last words almost pushed him in the back:

“I hope I won’t regret my decision.”

He didn’t look back, despite wanting to. After all, he couldn’t say he wasn’t hoping for the same thing.

Getting ready didn’t take too long. As he was still recovering from all of the beatings he had gotten at the end of his vigilante career, Tiffany refused to spar with him under threats of snitching to Alfred, so it wasn’t like he was sweaty. He still had to check stitches and get painkillers, so getting into a fresh suit wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t like he was going on a date, he just wanted to be presentable and had a legend to play along to.

Too bad the legend became his only life now.

The Batmobile roared in his presence the moment he entered the garage, but Bruce turned to the side and walked through a row of cars, trying to select something less noticeable. Lucius’ creation undoubtedly was the fastest and the safest of the vehicles he possessed, but if he wanted to keep the low profile for as long as he could, bright-red custom-made beauty was out of options. The problem was, most of his cars were way too flashy, in his opinion, and for the most part, he used to buy them only as status tokens.

Some of them he didn’t even remember having in the first place. How drunk – or sleep-deprived – he had to be to buy a hot- _pink_ Ferrari anyway?

After spending a good ten minutes wandering between the cars, each more ridiculously expensive than the last, Bruce had to acknowledge his defeat. From the very moment he was presented with the Batmobile, he practically forgot he had other options – he had to become Batman on the fly, after all, and it was always better to be prepared for something unexpected. It was probably logical that the publicity had forgotten about his former cars, too. He didn’t have anything cheaper than Bugatti Veyron in his garage anyway. Luckily for him, it was neutrally black and wasn’t sticking out like a sore thumb.

That pink Ferrari, though… Was it a bet he didn’t remember…?

He pondered about it lazily, as he drove to Arkham, barely below the city’s speed limit. The moment the asylum’s gates were before him, though, he concentrated back on the reality, slowing down and carefully parking in the further corner of the lot. His car still got plenty of envious glances from the guards, however, those were fairly understandable. It wasn’t like they got to see something of that caliber often.

Well, if everything went well and Bruce had any saying in the matter, that was about to change.

Still, Alfred’s words rung in his ears, suddenly getting a pinch of proof as he passed the parking lot to find himself at the creaking front doors of Arkham’s main entrance. Gargoyles sneered from their pedestals up above, attentive and knowing, and it felt like their eyes followed him everywhere. The massive entity of the asylum was suppressing, grey and grand and practically oozing with hidden danger. The hair at the back of Bruce’s neck bristled instinctively as he pushed the door.

It was a pocket universe as vast as it was tiny, and he felt like an intrusive element should feel.

Unwanted here.

Unwelcomed.

An alien.

The polite smile one of the receptionists greeted him with didn’t really help, but he did his best to keep the playboy mask in its place. She was already a tad nervous, fiddling with her pen, and there was no need to make the woman even more uneasy. The second nurse was too busy with doing something on her computer to pay any attention. From the frown on her face, Bruce had the feeling she wasn’t successful in whatever she was doing.

“Good day, Mister Wayne. Thank you for calling in advance,” the first nurse spoke and he recognized her voice from the phone call. “You said you came to visit John Doe. Your I.D. please?”

He handed her the document with a polite smile.

“I just want to visit a friend.”

“Meg, wasn’t John on the ‘difficult’ list with all the trouble he’d caused to the police last time? That Bullock officer was so pissed when he left, remember? Bring up the new report, the seventeenth one,” the second nurse turned away from the screen to glance back and blinked dumbfound when she finally noticed the man. The badge of her coat read ‘Betty W. Jackson’. “Dear God, it’s really Bruce Wayne!”

“I told you it was him and you didn’t believe,” the other teased, clearly pleased with herself before her triumph turned into confusion. “Wait. Seventeenth report?”

“Yeah, the glitchy one,” it was almost funny to watch as Betty battled her desire to get the phone. She paused and frowned again after a moment, though, and that wasn’t a good sign. “Wait, you didn't read it? I clearly remember he can't be visited.”

Maybe this Meg just wanted to prove to her friend – and herself – that famous playboy indeed was visiting a mental patient and played a fool?

After a few clicks on the computer, the nurse was looking dreaded:

“Oh. He really is in the ‘difficult’ list…”

She looked back at Bruce and considering how uncomfortable she was feeling, his chances of having a legal visit were depleting at incredible speed. Was he going to bribe his way in, again? It was a dangerous path to follow. When Joan found out – and she was going to, sooner rather than later  – she might forbid him from coming in altogether and Alfred would undoubtedly use it as an argument on why Bruce should be kept away from the asylum. Besides, it was creating a precedent. If he could bribe in, so could someone else, with far less innocent intentions.

Considering how much mayhem John had caused, there might have been those who’d want to harm him the way other inmates tried to have their way with Bruce when his family’s past was revealed.

The thought was unnerving. The billionaire made a mental reminder to himself to check all of Arkham stuff’s backgrounds once he was back home. He didn’t have to be Batman for that – he was more than sure that asylum’s database could be found and bought on the Internet, for the right price, albeit a bit illegally.

It wasn’t a noble thing to do, but, well, hacking into GCPD’s network was illegal too, and yet how many times did he do it to help?

“What happened?” he tried, but Betty shook her head.

“We’re really sorry for the inconvenience, Mister Wayne, but it’s a medical confidentiality. Mister Doe is on a no-visiting list as of yesterday,” the woman continued with a clear ‘please don’t sue us for this’ undertone as she handled him his I.D. back. “He can only be interrogated by police under the supervision of his therapist.”

“Well, about that,” Meg hurriedly added, clearly nervous now at her slip-up. “We’re just working a shift at the reception, but Dr. Leland is in her office now. Maybe you could discuss this with her? She is John’s therapist, after all, maybe she’ll make an exception for you.”

“It’s not like there’s a lot of people to make an exception for,” Betty shrugged. “The only visitors the guy ever has are cops and those visits aren’t pretty.”

It wasn’t what he was expecting from this visit, yet it was still better than nothing. Besides, a throughout talk with Joan could be beneficial in the long run. There were so many things Bruce wanted to change in this bleak hostile place, he didn’t know where to begin. Getting on good teams with the Head of Psychiatry was a fairly decent start.

“Even the best of us can make mistakes,” Bruce answered with a polite smile. There was no point in making things harder with stuff if he intended to visit here often. And wherever his family would like it or not, he had such intentions. “Would you lead me to her office then, please?”

“Sure!” Meg’s smile brightened as she rapidly pulled out the visitors’ book, glad there were no complications for her, at least, for now. “Please sign in here and follow me.”

The guard at the security post searched him attentively once the nurse stated the reason behind his visit. It almost seemed he wanted to find something, anything, so he could shove Bruce out the front door and shut it tight behind him, but, obviously, Lucius’ tech was far too superior to be found by a search that crude.

The insides of the asylum were a maze of broken grey tiles and tattered walls. Bruce had to admit that he’d probably get lost in it, as corridors looked almost identical to each other and twisted and turned in the most unexpected ways. He thought he caught a glance of the rec room and someone with a green hair in it, but Meg was in such a hurry, he wasn’t sure that his mind didn’t play tricks on him, showing him what he wanted to see. John had mentioned he wasn’t allowed to watch the TV but not him, nor Leland refused to specify the reasoning behind it.

Bruce could only hope it was nothing serious.

After an excruciatingly long ride in an ancient elevator, which required Meg’s doctor card to open its doors (perhaps he should think of such measures at Wayne Tower, too? As a safety measure), and a stride along the corridor which seemed a bit better than the last one, the billionaire was standing before the plain-looking door with a darkened brass plaque which read ‘Dr. Joan Leland’. Meg took a calming breath before knocking on it, then stepping through and letting Bruce behind her.

“Dr. Leland, there’s a visitor…”

Joan was sitting at her desk, working on some documents in front of it. Her office was… strict, yet it didn’t feel unwelcoming. It wasn’t spacious, but it was light and there were plants on the window-sill, which weren’t artificial or dead dry – much to Bruce’s surprise. He thought her office would be much more official and wouldn’t have anything but her diplomas on the walls.  

“Good day, Mister Wayne,” the psychiatrist finished the sentence she was writing before raising her head and looking at them. “Betty had informed me of what happened. Megan, I will talk to you later. Please inform Adam that the therapy session is postponed. Mister Wayne, please have a seat. I would like to talk to you, indeed.”

She pointed to a sofa near the wall across from her table. Its black pleather looked frayed, probably by the time and countless visitors and patients she had sitting there and it was hidden from the view of anyone who came into the room by the very door to the room, which opened inwards. Considering there was a psychiatrist's armchair near the sofa, perhaps it was made deliberately to give the patients an additional sense of privacy - or at least a moment to regain their composure when someone else entered the office. Still, it was almost funny the head of psychiatry didn’t have another chair in her office besides two of her working places.

By the time Bruce sat, Meg was already gone and closed the door behind her. Joan studied his face for a sole minute before speaking matter-of-factly:

“On the record, bribing your way in the asylum was the fastest way to be forever banned from visiting it as anything but a patient ever again.”

So she already knew. Before his mind could spiral down into desperate planning on how to get out of this, Dr. Leland continued with a tad softer tone.

“Off the record, however, I want to thank you for your devotion. John clearly needed some proof you haven’t abandoned him, and a personal visit was the best way to do just that,” Joan allowed herself a tired smile. “So I’ll let it slide, just this once.”

“I appreciate it,” Bruce thanked genuinely, forcefully calming himself. The catastrophe he had already pictured in his mind didn’t happen, thankfully. “And I am sorry for using such a method, but—“

The woman chuckled quietly, interrupting his apologies.

“I’d be more surprised if you haven’t tried to pull something like that, Bruce. You’re the kind of a man who doesn’t take no as an answer when he really wants something,” she explained, observing him. “However, I don’t believe you came here to have a session yourself.”

Again, she was implying he needed psychological treatment, as she did when he had left Arkham for good. He didn’t need it (at least, not that much, probably), he had much more pressing matters at hand. Even if he indeed needed some help, it could easily wait until he was finished with what he had needed to do.

“I did want to visit John, but I was told it’s not quite possible.”

“He hadn’t earned his visiting privileges back, although I can’t say he’s not trying,” the psychiatrist stated and sighed, rubbing her temples. “Or using his vast knowledge of the routine here to make it look that way. The sneaking visit you managed to pull was and will remain a one-time thing if you want to keep visiting him, and I will not repeat this warning. Furthermore, I don’t want to encourage his recent behavior by allowing you visiting him after the incident we had.”

Bruce found himself leaning forward, his gaze locked on the doctor.

“Can you elaborate on that?”

There was a long pause between them before Joan interlaced her fingers and answered:

“I need you to understand that all I’m going to say I am telling you because you’re the person he keeps trusting and your aid could be crucial in improving his condition,” she paused again, obviously choosing her wording carefully. “There were some tensions between him and newer patients. John is used to being recognized here and, as I’m sure you are aware of, doesn’t take well to impoliteness. Later that week they were found injured, but there was no evidence of who did it and the victims insisted on being responsible themselves.”

The billionaire set back and let out a long tired sight. He remembered the conditions under which he had met John for the first time and how eerily _in control_ the man seemed in Arkham. Although he didn’t like admitting it, Joan clearly was right. If there was someone among the inmates – _patients_ , he had to correct himself again – who could have pulled it off, it was the man who managed to copy Batman’s gear by merely observing him in action and knowing how it should have worked.

Truly, John continued to impress him once more, albeit in a grim manner this time.

Something didn’t add up, however. Even during his most violent fits, Joker didn’t have the limits for avenging the wrongs caused to him, but he wasn’t the one to strike preemptively. Considering the vigilante persona John had created just amplified what was already there, there had to be a reason for his actions, right?

“Do you know what caused the confrontation?”

“Not much. Orderlies and nurses didn’t notice anything out of ordinary, however, I could convince few patients to share what they witnessed, and was told they had him cornered beforehand.”

Bruce closed his eyes for a second, thanking God for small miracles. Although the situation was disturbing, at least it wasn’t violence for the sake of it.

“Still, Arkham has a strict no fighting policy, and I am not going to let such behavior slide, so before John had proved his devotion to the therapy, I can’t let you—“

There was a short knock and the door suddenly opened, leaving Bruce startled by the familiar voice:

“…so I asked him what was the name of his other leg!”

Bruce turned his head, and yes, there he was, the man who refused to leave his head, giggling lightly, acidic eyes shining with mirth. His good mood dropped the moment he noticed John was in a straight-jacket and convoyed by an orderly. Neither of them seemed to mind it, though, as the orderly chuckled at John’s joke and let him in with the nod to the psychiatrist. At least, he didn’t mind and just left when the pale man strode in the room with a bright smile:

“Hello, Doc, I hate being late, but I’m so good at it I can’t help it.”

Without as much as a second glance, John kicked off his slippers and nearly jumped on the opposite side of the sofa Bruce was already sitting, making himself comfortable by resting his back at the sofa’s armrest and stretching his legs over other man’s lap. Quite an impressive feat, considering he had to balance during all of it with his hands tied. Did he have a lot of practice?

The most observant (and least affected by emotions, which he suddenly seemed to have _a lot_ of) part of Bruce’s brain, the one where the shadow of the Bat lurked, automatically acknowledged scratches and bruises littering pale ankles.

Joan seemed to be just as dumbfounded as the billionaire was.

Not that Bruce minded it, exactly, but the situation was becoming increasingly awkward, and fast. Especially when John seemed to finally notice his presence, and the acidic green eyes were locked on him.

“My, Doc, please keep me on those new meds till the end of my days,” John nearly purred, half-closing his eyes, and Bruce could have sworn he shifted his pose so that his feet were pressed into him more. “They work _miracles_ with my mind.”

Did he think he was hallucinating again? Was he so convinced Bruce would just leave him in the asylum, he kept believing in medication’s side-effects more than he did in his senses? The thought was sobering.

The look John was giving him, however? Not so much. It was raw and predatory and full of hungry longing Bruce wasn’t sure he was entirely comfortable with getting – at least, when other people were around. Had Dr. Leland been out of the picture, it might’ve been thrilling. If anything, none of the people he had known in his life had looked at him with anything remotely close.

Now _that_ was a totally unnecessary train of thoughts to follow.

“John, would you be so kind as to take your legs off of Mister Wayne?” Joan finally found her voice, although it still sounded strained.

“Wayne?” he echoed, tearing his gaze from Bruce’s face with a bit of effort. “You mean you see him too?”

The mix of emotions which flashed on John’s face the very next moment was as amusing as it was bewildering. Bruce wasn’t even sure he could pin half of them before they were gone and confused happiness dominated over the rest. John’s eyes had a quick look over the way he sat and darted to his therapist before checking Bruce’s expression – probably to make sure he wasn’t angered by the whole shenanigan.

“Buddy,” he quickly lifted his legs off of Bruce and changed his whole pose so he was sitting on them now. “I’m-- uh, sorry, I hope this suite wasn’t… Oh, who am I kidding, it probably costs more than the asylum combined.”

Before he could restrain himself, Bruce found himself smiling slightly:

“No harm was done. Hi, John. You sure know how to make an entrance.”

“Oh, I don’t have the means to make a decent one here, but thanks,” John reciprocated with his signature grin, tilting his head to the side. Was that a reference to his vigilante debut? It probably was. “Here I was, heading to the therapy as usual, and boom, I see that you’re in here too. You have to understand one’s skepticism at a first glance. Who’d have thought I’d bump into you?”

Bruce could make out Dr. Leland’s muttering “I thought I told Meg to postpone it…” and made a promise to himself to bring the nurse a box of Teuscher chocolates during his next arrival. She did manage to arrange his visit, after all, even if a bit unconventionally.

Considering how John chuckled something about ‘Wayne charm’, he had heard it too.

“I promised to come back, didn’t I?” Bruce shrugged, immediately gaining his full attention.

It always amazed him, the sheer amount of attention he received from John and how easily and fully he could switch from one attention point to another. He had always thought only kids and machines were capable of such behavior. It almost looked scary, sometimes.

“So it—Huh,” the other man suddenly seemed thoughtful before looking him in the eyes with a vulnerable expression Bruce never knew how to react to. “So it was _real_? Your first visit?”

Leland was definitely looking at their interactions and must’ve made a vast number of mental notes… oh, to hell with all of it. It wasn’t like Bruce hasn’t exposed himself to her judgement when he got in Arkham for the first time after Joker’s capture. She already knew he cared for the man, but wouldn’t use it against them. Probably.

And even if she did—

Bruce abruptly derailed that train of thought, forbidding himself from ever finishing it.

Instead, he concentrated on John in front of him. They probably didn’t have much time, again, and there was a lot he wanted to say. if only words were easy to use – the real words he wanted to say to vocalize what he thought and felt and not the ones he ended up using because others were expecting it of him.

“It was,” he reassured quietly. “And I will continue to visit you once I’m officially allowed to.”

“The ‘difficult’ list, huh?” John stole a glimpse of Dr. Leland and Bruce nodded.

“How about a deal? The moment you are off of it, I’ll get notice and visit you again,” the billionaire proposed, knowing he had to tread carefully, but Joan seemed to be okay with his improvisation, at least, for now. “A proper visit, which would last for as long as rules would allow it. It’s up to you when it’ll happen.”

John was looking him in the eyes with an expression too soft and too knowing for someone locked up in a mental institution after a massacre. Bruce got the feeling that if he hadn’t been restrained, John would’ve tried to touch him, despite his usual distaste of physical contact. That is, unless it was the one he initiated himself, as far as Bruce remembered.

The always-cautious part of Bruce’s mind immediately tried to link it to all the physical abuse he had to pull through, and came to an unpleasant theory as of why. 

“You could sell snow in winter, you know it, right, buddy?” John chuckled as his grin turned into something more tender, his admiring gaze fixated on Bruce as if he could take a look inside his head and knew exactly what kind of obsessive thoughts he had lately and in which corner of his mind he tried to hide them – and loved each and every one of them. The thought was as disturbing as it was alluring. “Two strikes in a row, and it’s not like you’re a fan of bowling.”

There was a discreet ‘ahem’ from Joan’s side and the moment, whatever it was, had ended. Playboy’s polite smile was back at its place, and John’s grin shifted into something more theatrical rather than genuine.

“I suppose I outstayed my welcome,” Bruce announced, standing up from the sofa. The way John was tracing his movements felt even more physical than any touch could. “I don’t want to hinder your recovery, and the start of the session is long overdue. Thank you for your understanding, Dr. Leland.”

“It was nothing,” the woman played along with the same polite smile and perceptive eyes. “I’ll contact you later. Megan will come and lead you to the exit shortly. Have a nice day, Mister Wayne.”

“See you around, buddy,” John chimed, but the acidic green of his eyes seemed to dim for a tone. “Take care of yourself. And come back soon.”

“I will,” Bruce promised once again before leaving the office and closing the door behind him.

He didn’t really have the time to collect his thoughts and feelings before Meg appeared at the end of the corridor, nervous and out of breath. The smile he gave her was perhaps a bit too warm, but he was grateful to her, slip-up or no slip-up.

The path back seemed shorter, or Bruce was paying far less attention to it, more concerned with the mess in his mind and the feeling of the residential heat of John’s long legs on his lap. He didn’t want to dwell on it – no, hell, he wanted to, but he _couldn’t_ , for the sake of his sanity – and tried his best to get the messy tangle of his feelings back in check when his phone rang, the melody indicating it was an unknown number.

He paused before his car, taking a glimpse at the phone’s screen before frowning.

A ‘Hidden caller’. Interesting.

After a second of debating with himself, he picked the phone and gritted his teeth as a familiar low feminine voice rung in his ear, filled to the brim with demanding notes:

“You sure take your time, Wayne.”

He’d like to answer that had he knew it was her, he wouldn’t have picked up at all, but knew better. He needed to remain calm and collected when pitted against such an opponent, even if only verbally.

“I thought you were done with Gotham, Waller.”

“I hoped so, too. It doesn’t bring me pleasure to be reminded of the mess you call your city.”

A simple insult. Nothing too serious. Nothing to be worked up about. She was a government’s tumbleweed. How and why would she understand the drive to make the only city one called home a better place for all of its people?

The urge to end the call there and then was growing, though.

“What’s the point of this conversation, then?”

“I just happen to have a deal for you.”

By the sound of it, she was smoking. And had that obvious smirk, feeling superior to him. Bruce had to suppress a quiet sigh and kept his guard on. She wouldn’t call just to rub her putative dominance in his face. She valued her time too much – at least, he thought she did.

“What kind of a deal?” he asked cautiously and could’ve sworn she sneered.

“The one you won’t say no to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Phew! That was one hell of a ride into Bruce's head. And now I present you - the one, the only! - The Mighty Cliffhanger!  
> Please don't hate me for this, I'm really sleep-deprived ໒(⊙ᴗ⊙)७✎▤  
> I can't say that chapters like this one will be frequent guests in the story (I do want to spend more time with John, after all), but they will be there if the plot would need some scenes John won't be able to be a witness to or participate in, so the story as a whole would make more sense. I thought about switching to John's perspective once Bruce was in Arkham, but it felt sloppy, as I had to revert back to Bruce at the end of the chapter. So I just stayed with the guy. I hope it's not confusing.  
> Once again, a round of applause for Zennfir, who stoically braces herself in the face of my obsessions and agrees to remain my beta. Kudos to you, sunshine! (✿◠‿◠)  
> Still, if you notice any mistake, please, feel free to point it out! I will gladly correct it.  
> And thanks to everyone who read it!


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